SE'QUl 



TO THE 



ENGLISH RE 

* Elegant Selections 

IN PROSE AND POETRY. 

DESIGNED TO IMPROVE 

* 

THE HIGHEST CLASS OF LE.ARNERS, IN R^A*ING; 

&*L£~rf£ to establish c yy < tL si t jf r 

A TASTE 1TJR juST AND ACCURATE COMPOSITION; 

AND TO PROMOTE 
T<i£ INTERESTS OF PIETJ AND VIRTUE. 

BTLIND LET MURRAY, 

AUTHOR OF "ENGLISH GRAMMAR ADAPTED TO THE 
DIFFERENT CLASSES OF LEARNERS," &C. 



4K- 

THE FOURTH EDITION, 

WITH ALTERATIONS AND ADDITIONS. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED BY BENNETT & WA-|,#ON, NO. 31, 

AMD JOHNSON & WARNER, NO. 147, 

MAflKET STREET. 

18.1 a 



PE IIA.S 



2 



C-OP 



(SO 



\ bl 1943 

Accessions DMsion 




{/H^/^r,- 



INTRODUCTION. 




■K* 



THE " English Reader" has been so favourably 
received by the public, as to encourage the Compiler 
to hope, that the present volume will not be deemed 

.vorthy of attention. It pursues the same objects as 
''"Id former work; it preserves the same chaste atten- 
tion to the morals of youth; its materials are taken 
from the most correct and elegant writers : and as 
the pieces are generally more extended, and contain a 
greater variety of style and composition, it is presumed 
that it forms a proper a Sequel to the Reader," and 
is calculated to improve, both in schools and in pri- 
vate families, the highest class of young readers. 

In selecting materials for the poetical part of his 
work, the Compiler met with few authors, the whole 
of whose writings were unexceptionable. Some of 



IV INTRODUCTION. 

them have had unguarded moments, in which they 
have written what is not proper to come under the 
notice of youth. He must not therefore be understood 
as recommending every production of all the poets 
who have contributed to his selection.* Judicious 
parents and tutors, who feel the importance of a 
guarded education, will find it incumbent upon them 
to select for their children and pupils, such writings, 
both in prose and poetry, as are proper for their 
perusal; and young persons will evince their virtue 
and good sense, by cordially acquiescing in the judg- 
ment of those who are deeply interested in their 
welfare. Perhaps the best reason that can be offered, 
in favour of poetical selections for the use of young 
and innocent minds, is, the tendency which they have, 
when properly made, to preserve the chastity of their 
sentiments, and the purity of their morals. 

In " The Sequel," as well as in " The English 
Reader," several pieces are introduced, which, in a 

* Justice to the authors from whose writings the extracts were 
made, and regard to the credit of the present work, rendered the 
insertipn of names indispensable. 



INTRODUCTION. V 

striking manner, display the beauty and excellence of 
the Christian religion. Extracts of this kind, if fre- 
quently diffused amongst the elements of literature, 
would doubtless produce happy effects on the minds 
of youth, and contribute very materially to counteract, 
both the open and the secret labours of Infidelity* 
With these views, the Compiler derived particular 
satisfaction, in selecting those pieces which are cal- 
culated to attach the young mind to a religion per- 
fectly adapted to the condition of man ; and which 
not only furnishes the most rational and sublime en- 
joyments in this life, but secures complete and per- 
manent felicity hereafter. 



A 



AD VER TISEMENT. 



The second edition of this work has received the Author's par- 
ticular attention. Many of the pieces in the former edition, are 
omitted, and others inserted which are of superior importance, 
or more interesting to young persons. The new edition contains 
also, in an Appendix, Biographical Sketches of the authors men- 
tioned in the " Introduction to the English Reader" the "English 
Reader" itself, and the '-' Sequel to the Reader" with occasional 
strictures on their writings, and references to the particular works 
by which they have been most distinguished.* 

By these Biographical Sketches, it is the Compiler's intention, 
not only to gratify the young reader's curiosity, respecting the 
authors of the pieces he has perused ; but also to present to him 
such facts and sentiments as are peculiarly instructive and inter- 
esting, and calculated toynake durable impressions on his mind' 
The language too of these sketches has been studiously regarded; 
that no want of accuracy or perspicuity in the composition, might 
prevent this part of the bpok from forming an additional number 
of occasional exercises in reading. 



* From the difficulty of obtaining accurate and impartial infor- 
mation, and from motives of delicacy, no account is given of 
living authors. 



CONTENTS. 

PART I. 
PIECES IN PROSE. 



CHAPTER I. 
NARRATIVE PIECES. 



Pas's 



a 



Sect. 1. Religion the foundation of content. An 

allegory, - - - - - 13 

2. The vision of Mirza; exhibiting a pic- 

ture of human life, - - - 20 

3. Endeavours of mankind to get rid of their 

burdens ; a dream, - - - 25 

4'. The same subject continued, - 28 

5. The vision of Almet, - - - 32 

6. Religion and superstition contrasted. A 

-vision, - - - - - 38 

CHAPTER II. 
DIDACTIC PIECES. 

Sect. 1. Vicious connexions the ruin of virtue, 44 

2. On cheerfulness, - - - - 49 

3. Happy effects of contemplating the works 

of nature, - - - - - 53 

4. Reflections on the universal presence of 

the Deity, - - - - - 56 



V11I CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 1,11. 
ARGUMENTATIVE PIECE'S. 

Page, 
Sect. 1. Our imperfect knowledge of a future 
state, suited to the condition of man, 61 

2. Youth the proper season for gaining know- 

ledge and forming religious habits, 66 

3. The truth of Christianity proved, from 

the conversion of the Apostle Paul, 71 

CHAPTER IV. 
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 

Sect. 1. The heavens and the earth show the glory 
and the wisdom of their Creator. — The 
earth happily adapted to the nature 
of man, - . - - - - 76 

2. An eruption of mount Vesuvius, - 79 

3. Description of the preparations made by 

Xerxes, the Persian monarch, for inva- 
ding Greece, - - - 82 

4. Character of Martin Luther, 87 

5. The good and the bad man compared in 

the season of adversity, - - 91 

CHAPTER V. 
PATHETIC PIECES. 

Sect. 1. Rome savtd by female virtue, - 9o 

2. Execution of Cranmer, Archbishop of 

Canterbury, - 103 

3. Christianity furnishes the best consolation 

under the evils of life, - - 105 



CONTENTS. IX 

Page* 
4. Benefits to be derived from scenes of 
distress, ----- 108 

CHAPTER VI. 
DIALOGUES. 

Sect. 1. Theron and Aspasio.— Beauty and utility- 
combined in the productions of nature, 115 

2. Cadmus and Hercules. — Importance of 

literature, - - - 118 

3. Marcus Aureiius Philosophus and Ser- 

vius Tuliius. — An absolute and a lim- 
ited monarchy compared, - 124* 

4. Theron and Aspasio. — On the excellence 

of the Holy Scriptures, - ^129 

CHAPTER VII. 
PUBLIC SPEECHES. 

Sect. 1. The defence of Socrates before his 

Judges, 138 

2. The Scythian ambassadors to Alexander, 

on his making preparations to attack 
their country, - - - - 143 

3. Speech of the Earl of Chatham, on the 

subject of employing Indians to fight 
against the Americans, - - 146 

CHAPTER VIII. 
PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 

Sect. 1. The Voyage of Life ; an allegory, - 150 
2. The vanity of those pursuits which have 
human approbation for their chief ob- 
ject, ----- 155 



CONTENTS. 

Page, 

3. The folly and misery of idleness - 160 

4. The choice of our situation in life, a point 

of great importance, - - -167 

5. No life pleasing to God that is not use- 

ful to man. An eastern narrative, 172 

6. Character of the Great Founder of Chris- 

tianity, - - - - - 179 

7. The spirit and laws of Christianity supe- 

rior to those of every other religion, 180 

8. The vision of Carazan : Or, social love 

and beneficence recommended, 185 

9. Creation the product of divine good- 

ness, - - - - - 189 

10. The benefits of religious retirement, 192 

1 1 . History of ten days of Seged, emperor of 

Ethiopia, ----- 200 

12. History of Seged continued, 205 

13. The vision of Theodore, the hermit of 

Teneriffe, found in his cell, - 210 

14. The vision of Theodore continued, 217 

15. The vision of Theodore continued, 222 



CONTENTS. XI 

PART II. 
PIECES IN POETRY. 



CHAPTER I. 
NARRATIVE PIECES. 



Page. 
Sect. 1. The chameleon ; or pertinacity exposed, 227 

2. The hare and many friends, - - 229 

3. The three warnings, - - - 231 

4. The hermit^ - - - - 235 



CHAPTER IT. 
DIDACTIC PIECES. 



Sect. 1. The love of the world detected, - 243 

2. On Friendship, - 244 

3. Improvement of time recommended, 251 



CHAPTER lit. 
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES, 



Sect. 1. The Spring, - -"•"■.-- - 254 

2. Description of winter at Copenhagen, 255 

3. Night described, ... 257 

4. Grongar Hill, - - . 258 

5. Description of a parish poor-house, 263 

6. A summer evening's meditation, - 264 

7. Cheerfulness, - - - - 268 

8. Providence, - - -- - 270 

9. The last day, I- - - '■- 271 



Xll CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER IV. 
PATHETIC PIECES. 

Page. 

Sect. 1. Hymn to humanity, - 275 

' 2. A night-piece on death, - - 278 

3. In every condition of life, praise is due 

to the Creator, - - - - 281 

4. Folly of human pursuits, - - 282 

5. An address to the Deity, - - 284 

6. A monody on die death of lady Lyttel- 

ton, ----- 287 

CHAPTER V. 
PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 

Sect. 1. Hymn to contentment, - - - 294 

2. An elegy written in a country church- 

yard, - - - - - 296 

3. The deserted village, - 301 

4. The deserted village continued, - 307 

5. The Traveller; or, a prospect of so- 

ciety, - - - - - 313 

6. The Traveller continued, - - 318 

7. The vanity of human wishes, - 327 

8. The vanity of human wishes continued, 332 

APPENDIX, 341 



SEQUEL 

TO 

THE ENGLISH READER. 



PART I. 

PIECES IN PROSE. 




NARRATIVE PIECES. 
SECTION I. 

Religion the foundation of content. An Allegory, 

OMAR, the hermit of <he mountain Aubukabis, 
which rises on the east of Mecca, and overlooks the 
city, found one evening a man sitting pensive and 
alone, within a few paces of his cell. Omar regarded 
him with attention, and perceived that his looks were 
wild and haggard, and that his body was feeble and 
emaciated. The man also seemed to gaze steadfastly 
on Omar; but such was the abstraction of his mind, 
that his eye did not immediately take cognizance of its 
Object. In the moment of recollection, he started as 
from a dream ; he covered his face in confusion ; and 
bowed himself to the ground. " Son of affliction," said 
Omar, " who art thou, and what is thy distress ?" " My 
name," replied the stranger, u is Hassan, and I am a 
native of this city. The angel of adversity has laid his 

B 



14 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

hand upon me, and the wretch whom thine eye com- 
passionates, thou canst not deliver." " To deliver 
thee," said Omar, " belongs to him only, from whom 
we should receive with humility both good and evil ; 
yet hide not thy life from me ; for the burden which I 
cannot remove, I may at least enable thee to sustain." 
Hassan fixed his eyes upon the ground, and remained 
some time silent; then fetching a deep sigh, he looked 
up at the hermit, and thus complied with his request. 

u It is now six years since our mighty lord the caliph 
Almalic, whose memory be blessed, first came privately 
to worship in the temple of the holy city. The blessing 
which he petitioned of the prophet, as the prophet's 
vicegerent, he was diligent to dispense. In the inter- 
vals of his devotion, therefore, he went about the city 
relieving distress, and restraining oppression : the wi- 
dow smiled under his protection, and the weakness of 
age and infancy were sustained by his bounty. I, who 
dreaded no evil but sickness, and expected no good be- 
yond the reward of my labour, was singing at my work, 
when Almalic entered my dwelling. He looked round 
with a smile of complacency ; perceiving that though 
it was mean, it was neat ; and though I was poor, I ap- 
peared to be content. As his habit was that of a pilgrim, 
I hastened to receive him with such hospitality as was 
in my power ; and my cheerfulness was rather increas- 
ed than restrained by his presence. After he had ac- 
cepted some coffee, he asked me many questions; and 
though by my answers I always endeavoured to excite 
him to mirth, yet I perceive^ that he grew thoughtful, 
and eyed me with a placid but fixed attention. I sus- 
pected that he had some knowledge of me, and there- 
fore inquired his country and his name. " Hassan, 
said he, M I have raised thy curiosity, and it shall be 



Chap, i. Narrative Pieces, 15 

satisfied : he who now talks with thee, is Almalic, the 
sovereign of the faithful, whose seat is the throne ot 
Medina, and whose commission is from above." These 
words struck me dumb with astonishment, though I had 
some doubt of their truth: but Almalic throwing back 
his garment, discovered the peculiarity of his vest, and 
put the royal signet upon his finger. I then started 
up, and was about to prostrate myself before him, but 
he prevented me : " Hassan," said he, " forbear: thou 
art greater than I ; and from thee I have at once de- 
rived humility and wisdom." I answered, u Mock not 
thy servant, who is but a worm before thee: life and 
death are in thy hand, and happiness and misery are 
the daughters of thy will." " Hassan," he replied, 
" I can no otherwise give life and happiness, 
not taking them away : thou art thyself be) 
reach of my bounty ; and possessed of felicity 
I can neither communicate nor obtain. My ir 
over others, fills rr*y bosoiu with perpetual soiicuuciv, 
and anxiety -, and yet my influence over others extends 
only to their vices, whether I would reward or punish. 
By the bow-string, lean repress violence and fraud; 
and by the delegation of power, I can transfer the in- 
satiable wishes of avarice and ambition from one ob- 
ject to another: but with respect to virtue, I am impo- 
tent ; if I could reward it, I would reward it in thee. 
Thou art content, and hast therefore neither avarice 
nor ambition. To exalt thee, would destroy the sim- 
plicity of thy life, and diminish that happiness which I 
have no power either to increase or to continue." — He 
then rose up, and commanding me not to disclose his 
secret, departed. 

u As soon as I recovered from the confusion and 
astonishment in which the caliph left me, I began to 



16 t Sequel to the English Reader. Parti. 

regret that ray behaviour had intercepted his bounty; 
and accused that cheerfulness of folly, which was the 
concomitant of poverty and labour. I now repined at 
the obscurity of my station, which my former insensi- 
bility had perpetuated. I neglected my labour, be- 
cause I despised the reward; I spent the day in idle- 
ness, forming romantic projects to recover the advan- 
tages which I had lost: and at night, instead of losing 
myself in that sweet and refreshing sleep, from which 
I used to rise with new health, cheerfulness, and vigour, 
I dreamed of splendid habits and a numerous retinue, 
of gardens, palaces, feasting, and pleasures ; and waked 
only s to regret the illusions that had vanished. My 
health was at length impaired by the inquietude of my 
' ; I sold all my moveables for subsistence ; and re- 
1 only a mattrass, upon which I sometimes lay 
>e night to another. 

he first moon of the following year, the caliph 
lin to Mecca, T.-:ih the s?.me secrecy, and for 
the same purposes. He was willing once more to see 
the man, whom he considered as deriving felicity from 
himself. But he found me, not singing at my work, 
ruddy with health, vivid with cheerfulness; but pale 
and dejected, sitting on the ground, and chewing opium, 
which contributed to substitute the phantoms of ima- 
gination for the realities of greatness. He entered 
with a kind of joyful impatience in his countenance, 
which, the moment he beheld me, was changed to a 
mixture of wonder and pity. I had often wished for 
another opportunity to address the caliph ; yet I was 
confounded at his presence, and, throwing myself at 
his feet, I laid my hand upon my head, and was speech- 
less. " Hassan," said he, " what canst thou have lost, 
whose wealth was the labour of thine own hajid ; and 



> 



Chap* i. Narrative Pieces. 1 7 

what can have made thee sad, the spring of whose joy 
was in thy own bosom ? What evil hath befallen thee ? 
Speak, and. if I can remove it, thou art happy." I was 
now encouraged to look up, and I replied, " Let my 
lord forgive the presumption of his servant, who rather 
than utter a falsehood, would be dumb for ever. I am 
become wretched by the loss of that which I never 
possessed. Thou hast raised wishes, which indeed I 
am not worthy thou shouldst satisfy ; but why should it 
be thought, that he who was happy in obscurity and 
indigence, would not have been rendered more happy 
by eminence and wealth?" 

" When I had finished this speech, Almalic stood some 
momemts in suspense, and I continued prostrate before 
him. u Hassan," said he, " I perceive, not with in- 
dignation but regret, that I mistook thy character. I 
now discover avarice and ambition in thy heart, which 
lay torpid only because their objects were too remote 
to rouse them. I cannot therefore invest thee with 
authority, because I would not subject my people to 
oppression ; and because I would not be compelled to 
punish thee for crimes which I first enabled thee to 
commit. But as I have taken from thee that which I 
cannot restore, I will at least gratify the wishes that I 
excited, lest thy heart accuse me of injustice, and thou 
continue still a stranger to thyself. Arise, therefore, 
and follow me." — I sprung from the ground as it were 
with the wings of an eagle ; I kissed the hem of his 
garment in an ecstacy of gratitude and joy ; and when 
I went out of my house, my heart leaped as if I had 
escaped from the den of a lion. I followed Almalic to 
the caravansary in which he lodged ; and after he had 
fulfilled his vows, he took me with him to Medina, 
He gave me an apartment in the seraglio j I was at- 

B 2 



1 8 Sequet to the English Reader. Part u 

tended by his own servants ; my provisions were sent 
from his own table ; I received every week a sum from 
his treasury, which exceeded the most romantic of my 
expectations. But I soon discovered, that no dainty 
was so tasteful, as the food to which labour procured 
an appetite; no slumbers so sweet, as those which 
weariness invited ; and no time so well enjoyed, as that 
in which diligence is expecting its reward. I remem- 
bered these enjoyments with regret; and while I was 
sighing in the midst of superfluities, which, though they 
encumbered life, yet I could not give up, they were 
suddenly taken away. Almalic, in the midst of the 
glory of his kingdom, and in the full vigour of his life, 
expired suddenly in the bath : such thou knowest was 
the destiny which the Almighty had written upon his 
head. 

" His son Aububekir, who succeeded to the throne, 
was incensed against me, by some who regarded me 
at once with contempt and envy. He suddenly with- 
drew my pension, and commanded that I should be ex- 
pelled the palace; a command which my enemies 
executed with so much rigour, that within twelve hours 
I found myself in the streets of Medina, indigent and 
friendless, exposed to hunger and derision, with all the 
habits of luxury, and all the sensibility of pride. O ! 
let not thy heart despise me, thou whom experience 
has not taught, that it is misery to lose that which it is 
not happiness to possess. O ! that for me this lesson 
had not been written on the tablets of Providence ! I 
have travelled from Medina to Mecca ; but I cannot 
fly from myself. How different are the states in which 
I have been placed! The remembrance of both is bit- 
ter: for the pleasures of neither can return." — Hassan 



Ghap. i. Narrative Pieces* 19 

having thus ended his story, smote his hands together ;• 
and looking upward, burst into tears. 

Omar having waited till this agony was past, went 
to him, and taking him by the hand, u My son," said 
he, u more is yet in thy power than Almalic could give, 
or Aububekir take away. The lesson of thy life the 
prophet has in mercy appointed me to explain. 

u Thou wast once content with poverty and labour, 
only because they were become habitual, and ease and 
affluence were placed beyond thy hope ; for when ease 
and affluence approached thee, thou wast content with 
poverty and labour no more. That which then be- 
came the object, was also the bound of thy hope ; and 
he, w&ose utmost hope is disappointed, must inevitably 
be wretched. If thy supreme desire had been the de- 
lights of paradise, and thou hadst believed that by the 
tenour of thy life these delights had been secured, as 
more could not have been given thee, thou wouldst not 
have regretted that less was not offered. The content 
which was once enjoyed, was but the lethargy of soul; 
and the distress which is now suffered, will but quicken 
i/to action. Depart, therefore, and be thankful for all 
things ; put thy trust in Him, who alone can gratify 
the wish of reason, and satisfy thy soul with good; fix 
thy hope upon that portion, in comparison of which the 
world is as the drop of the bucket, and the dust of the 
balance. Return, my son, to thy labour; thy food 
shall be again tasteful, and thy rest shall be sweet ; to 
thy content also will be added stability, when it de- 
pends not upon that which is possessed upon earth, but 
upon that which is expected in heaven." 

Hassan, upon whose mind the angel of instruction 
impressed the counsel of Omar, hastened to prostrate 
himself in the temple of the prophet. Peace dawned 



20 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

upon his mind, like the radiance of the morning : he 
returned to his labour with cheerfulness ; his devotion 
became fervent and habitual; and the latter days of 
Hassan were happier than the first. 

DR. JOHNSON. 
SECTION II. 

The vision ofMirza; exhibiting a picture of human life* 

On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to 
the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after 
having washed myself, and offered up my morning 
devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order 
to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. 
As I was here refreshing myself on the tops of the moun- 
tains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity 
of human life ; and passing from one thought to another, 
Surely, said I, man is but a shadow, and life a dream. 
Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the 
summit of a rock that was not far from me, w^here I 
discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, but who was 
in reality a being of superior nature. I drew near 
with profound reverence, and fell down at his feet. 
The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion 
and affability, that familiarized him to my imagination, 
and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions 
with which I approached him. He lifted me from the 
ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirza, said he, I 
have heard thee in thy soliloquies ; follow me. 

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock ; 
and placing me on the top of it, Cast thy eyes eastward, 
said he, and tell me what thou seest. I see, said I, a 
huge valley, and a, prodigious tide of water rolling 



Chap* i. Narrative Pieces* 21 

through it. The valley that thou seest, said he, i» the 
vale of misery ; and the tide of water that thou seest, 
is part of the great tide of eternity. What is the 
, reason, said I, that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist 
at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the 
other? What thou seest, said he, is that portion of 
eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, 
and reaching from the beginning of the world to its 
consummation. Examine now, said he, this sea that is 
bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what 
thou discoverest in it. I see a bridge, said I> standing 
in the midst of the tide. The bridge thou seest, said 
he, is human life ; consider it attentively. Upon a 
more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of 
threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken 
arches, which, added to those that were entire, made 
up the number about a hundred. As I was counting 
the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted 
at first of a thousand ; but that a great flood swept away 
the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I 
now beheld it. But tell me further, said he, what thou 
discoverest on it. I see multitudes of people passing 
over it, said I, and a black cloud hanging on each end 
of it. As I looked more attentively, I saw several of 
the passengers dropping through the bridge into the 
great tide that flowed underneath it ; and, upon further 
examination, perceived there were innumerable trap- 
doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the pas- 
sengers no sooner trod upon, than they fell through 
them into the tide, and immediately disappeared, 
These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance 
of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner 
broke through the cloud than many fell into them* 
They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied 



"22 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

and lay closer together towards the end of the arches- 
that were entire. There were indeed some persons, 
but their number Was very small, that continued a kind 
of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell 
through one after another, being quite tired and spent 
with so long a walk. 

I passed some time in the contemplation of this won- 
derful structure, and the great variety of objects which 
it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melan- 
choly, to see several dropping unexpectedly in the 
midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing 
that stood bv them to save themselves. Some were 
looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, 
and, in the mid-st of a speculation, stumbled and fell 
out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit 
of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes, and danced 
before them ; but often, when they thought themselves 
within the reach of them, their footinc failed, and down 
they sunk. la this confusion of objects, I observed some 
with scimifcasg in th*rir hands, and others with Urinals, 
who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several 
persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their 
way, and which they might have escaped had they 
not been thus forced upon them. 

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melan- 
choly prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon 
it. Take thine eyes off the bridge, said he, and tell me 
if thou seest any thing thou dost not comprehend. Upon 
looking up, What mean, said I, those great flights of 
birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, 
and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, 
harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other 
feathered creatures, several little winged boys that 
perch in great numbers upon the middle arches. 



Chap. 1. Narrative Pieces. 23 

These, said the genius, are envy, avarice, superstition, 
despair, love, with the like cares and passions that in- 
fest human life. 

I here fetched a deep sigh. Alas, said I, man was 
made in vain! how is he given away to misery and 
mortality ! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death ! 
The genius being moved with compassion towards me, 
bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Look no 
more, said he, on man in the first stage of his existence, 
in his setting out for eternity ; but cast thine eye on 
that thick mist into which the tide bears the several 
generations of mortals that fall into it. I directed 
my sight as I was ordered, and' (whether or not the 
good genius strengthened it with any supernatural 
force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too 
thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley open- 
ing at the farther end, and spreading forth into an 
immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant run- 
ning through the midst of it, and dividing it into two 
equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, 
insomuch that I could discover nothing in it ; but the 
other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with in- 
numerable islands, that were covered with fruits and 
flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining 
seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed 
in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, 
passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of 
fountains, or resting on beds of flowers. Gladness 
grew in me at the discovery of so delightful a scene. I 
wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away 
to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no 
passage to them, except through the gates of death that 
I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. The 
islands, said he, that lie so fresh and green before thee* 



24 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i* 

and with which the whole face of the ocean appears 
spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number 
than the sands on the sea-shore. There are myriads of 
islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reach- 
ing further than thine eye, or even thine imagination, 
can extend itself. These are the mansions of good 
men after death, who, according to the degree and 
kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed 
among these several islands, which abound with plea- 
sures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the 
relishes and perfections of those who are settled in 
them; every island is a paradise accommodated to its 
respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habita- 
tions worth contending for? Does life appear miserable, 
that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward? 
Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy 
an existence ? Think not man was made in vain, who 
has such an eternity reserved for him. — I gazed with 
inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At 
length, said I, show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets 
that lie hid under those dark clouds, which cover the 
ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant. The 
genius making no answer, I turned about to address 
myself to him a second time, but I found that he had 
left me. I then turned again to the vision which I had 
been so long contemplating ; but instead of the rolling 
tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw 
nothing but the long hollow valley of fiagdat, with 
oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides of it. 

ADDISON. 



Chap. I. Narrative Pieces. 25 

section in. 

Endeavours of mankind to get rid of their burdens; a 

dream.* 

It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the 
misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, 
in order to be equally distributed among the whole 
species, those who now think themselves the most un- 
happy, would prefer the share they are already pos- 
sessed of, before that which would fall to them by such 
a division. Horace has carried this thought a great 
deal further: he says that the hardships or misfortunes 
which we lie under, are more easy to us than those of 
any other person would be, in case we could change 
conditions with him. 

As I was ruminating on these two remarks, and seated 
in my elbow-chair, I insensibly fell asleep; when, on 
a sudden, I thought there was a proclamation made 
by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his griefs 
and calamities, and throw them together in a heap. 
There was a large plain appointed for this purpose. I 
took my stand in the centre of it, and saw, with a great 
deal of pleasure, the whole human species marching 
one after another, and throwing down their several 
loads, which immediately grew up into a prodigious 
mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds. 

There was a certain lady of a thin airy shape, who 
was very active in this solemnity. She carried a mag- 
nifying glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a 



Dr. Johnson used to say, that this Essay of Addison's, on the 
burdens of mankind, was the most exquisite he had ever read. 

G 



26 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1. 

loose flowing robe, embroidered with several figures of 
fiends and spectres, that discovered themselves in a 
thousand chimerical shapes, as her garment hovered in 
the wind. There was something wild and distracted in 
her looks. Her name was Fancy. She led up every 
mortal to the appointed place, after having very offici- 
ously assisted him in making up his pack, and laying 
it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me, to 
see my fellow-creatures groaning under their respective 
burdens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of hu-^ 
man calamities which lay before me. 

There were, however, several persons who gave me 
great diversion upon this occasion. I observed one 
bringing in a fardel very carefully concealed under an 
old embroidered cloak, which, upon his throwing it 
into the heap, I discovered to be Poverty. Another, 
after a great deal of puffing, threw down his luggage, 
which upon examining, I found to be his wife. 

There were multitudes of lovers saddled with very 
whimsical burdens composed of darts and flames ; but, 
what was very odd, though they sighed as if their 
hearts would break under these bundles of calamities, 
they could not persuade themselves to cast them into 
the heap, when they came up to it: but, after a few 
faint efforts, shook their heads, and marched away as 
heavy laden as they came. I saw multitudes of old 
women throw down their wrinkles, and several young 
ones who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There 
were very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and 
rusty teeth. The truth of it is, I was surprised to see 
the greatest part of the mountain made up of bodily 
deformities. Observing one advancing towards the 
heap, with a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, 
I found, upon his near approach, that it was only a 



Chap, i. Narrative Pieces. 27 

natural hump, which he disposed of, with great joy of 
heart, among this collection of human miseries. There 
were likewise distempers of all sorts ; though I could 
not but observe, that there were many more imaginary 
than real. One little packet I could not but take 
notice of, which was a complication of all the diseases 
incident to human nature, and was in the hand of a 
great many fine people: this was called the Spleen. 
But what most of all surprised me, was a remark I 
made, that there was not a single vice or folly thrown 
into the whole heap ; at which I was very much aston- 
ished, having concluded within myself, that every one 
would take this opportunity of getting rid of his pas- 
sions, prejudices, and frailties* 

I took notice in particular of a very profligate 
fellow, who I did not question came loaded with his 
crimes ; but upon searching into his bundle, I found 
that, instead of throwing his guilt from him, he had 
only laid down his memory. He was followed by 
another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty 
instead of his ignorance. 

When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their 
burdens, the phantom which had been so busy on this 
occasion, seeing me an idle spectator of what had 
passed, approached towards me. I grew uneasy at her 
presence, when of a sudden she held her magnifying 
glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in 
it, but! was startled at the shortness of it, which now 
appeared to me in its utmost aggravation. The im- 
moderate breadth of the features made me very much 
out of humour with my own countenance ; upon which 
I threw it from me like a mask. It happened very 
luckily, that one who stood by me had just before 
thrown cjown his visage, which it seems was too lone; 



28 Sequel to the English Reader ; Part. i. 

for him. It was indeed extended to a shameful length ; 
I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, as long- 
as my whole face. We had both of us an opportunity 
of mending ourselves ; and all the contributions being 
now brought in, every man was at liberty to exchange 
his misfortunes for those of another person. But as 
there arose many new incidents in the sequel of my 
vision, I shall reserve them for the subject of my next 
paper. 

SECTION IV. 

The same subject continued. 

In my last paper, I gave my reader a sight of that 
mountain of miseries, which was made up of those 
several calamities that afflict the minds of men. I saw, 
with unspeakable pleasure, the whole species thus de- 
livered from its sorrows; though, at the same time, as 
we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several 
materials of which it was composed, there was scarcely 
a mortal, in this vast multitude, who did not discover 
what he thought pleasures of life ; and wondered how 
the owners of them ever came to look upon them as 
burdens and grievances. 

As we were regarding very attentively this confusion 
of miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a 
second proclamation, that every one was now at liberty 
to exchange his affliction, and to return to his habitation 
with any such other bundle as should be delivered to 
him. 

Upon this, Fancy began again to bestir herself, and 
parcelling out the whole heap with incredible activity, 
recommended to every one his particular packet. The 
hurrv and confusion at this time were not to be ex- 



Chap. i. Narrative Pieces* 29 

pressed, Some observations which I made upon this 
occasion I shall communicate to the public. A vene- 
rable gray-headed man, who had laid down the coiic, 
and who I found wanted an heir to his estate, snatched 
up an undutiful son, that had been thrown into the 
heap by an angry father. The graceless youth, in kss 
than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by 
the beard, and. had like to have knocked his brains 
out; so that meeting the true father, who came towards 
him with a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take his 
son again, and give him back his colic ; but they were 
incapable either of them to recede from the choice 
they had made. A poor galley slave, who had thrown 
down his chains, took up the gout in their stead, but 
made such wry faces, that one might easily perceive 
he was no great gainer by the bargain. It was pleasant 
enough to see the several exchanges that were made, 
for sickness against poverty, hunger against want of 
appetite, and care against pain. 

The female world were very busy among themselves 
in bartering for features : one was trucking a lock of 
gray hairs for a carbuncle ; another was making over a 
short waist for a pair of round shoulders ; and a third 
cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation : but on all 
these occasions, there was not one of them who did not 
think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into 
her possession, much more disagreeable than the old 
one. I made the same observation on every other 
misfortune or calamity, which every one in the assembly 
brought upon himself, in lieu of what he had parted 
with ; whether it be that all the evils which befal us are 
in some measure suited and proportioned to our strength, 
or that every evil becomes more supportable by our 
being accustomed to it, I shall not determine. 

c 2 



30 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

I could not for my heart forbear pitying the poor 
hump-backed gentleman, mentioned in the former 
paper, who went off a very well- shaped person with a 
stone in his bladder ; nor the fine gentleman who had 
struck up this bargain with him, that limped through 
a whole assembly of ladies who used to admire him, 
with a pair of shoulders peeping over his head. 

I must not omit my own particular adventure. My 
Iriend with the long visage had no sooner taken upon 
him my short face, but he made so grotesque a figure, 
that as I looked upon him I could not forbear 
laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own face 
out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sen- 
sible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of 
what he had done : on the other side, I found that I 
myself had no great reason to triumph, for as I went to 
touch my forehead I missed the place, and clapped my 
finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was 
exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky 
Jcnocks as I was playing my hand about my face, and 
aiming at some other part of it. I saw two other gen- 
tlemen by me, who were in the same ridiculous circum- 
stances. These had made a foolish exchange between 
a couple of thick bandy legs, and two long trap-sticks 
that had no calves to them. One of these looked like 
a man walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up into 
the air, above his ordinary height, that his head turned 
round with it; while the other made so awkward 
circles, as he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew 
how to move forward upon his new supporters. Ob- 
serving him to be a pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck my 
cane in the ground, and told him I would lay him a 
bottle of wine, that he did not march up to it, on a line 
that I drew for him, in a quarter of an hour. 



Chap. i« Narrative Pieces, 31 

The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, 
who made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up 
and down under the pressure of their several burdens. 
The whole plain was filled with murmurs and com- 
plaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter, at length, 
taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them 
a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to 
give every one his own again. They discharged them- 
selves with a great deal of pleasure: after which, the 
phantom who had led them into such gross delusions, 
was commanded to disappear. There was sent in her 
stead a goddess of a quite different figure : her motions 
were steady and composed, and her aspect serious but 
cheerful. She every now and then cast her eyes 
towards heaven, and fixed them upon Jupiter: her 
name was Patience. She had no sooner placed her- 
self by the Mount of Sorrows, but, what I thought very 
remarkable, the. whole heap sunk to such a degree, that 
it did not appear a third part so big as it was before. 
She afterwards returned every man his own proper 
calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most 
commodious manner, he marched off with it content- 
edly, being very well pleased that he had not been left 
to his own choice, as to the kind of evils which fell to 
his lot. 

Besides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out 
of this vision, I learned from it never to repine at my 
own misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of another, 
since it is impossible for any man to form aright judg- 
ment of his neighbour's sufferings ; for which reason 
also, I have determined never to think too lightly of 
another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my 
fellow-creatures with sentiments of humanity and com- 
passion. ADDISON, 



32 Sequel to the English Reader* Part i. 

section v. 

The Vision of Almet. 

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose ; 
And these be happy call'd, unhappy those ; 
But Heav'n's just balance equal will appear, 
While those are plac'd in Hope* and these in Fear. 

pope. 

Almet, the dervise, who watched the sacred lamp 
in the sepulchre of the prophet, as he one day rose up 
from the devotions of the morning, which he had per- 
formed at the gate of the temple, with his body turned 
towards the east, and his forehead on the earth, saw 
before him a man in splendid apparel, attended by a 
long retinue, who gazed steadfastly on him, with a 
look of mournful complacency, and seemed desirous 
to speak, but unwilling to offend. 

The dervise, after a short silence, advanced, and 
saluting him with the calm dignity which independ- 
ence confers upon humility, requested that he would 
reveal his purpose. 

" Almet," said the stranger, " thou seest before thee 
a man, whom the hand of prosperity has overwhelmed 
with wretchedness. Whatever I once desired as the 
means of happiness, I now possess ; but I am not yet 
happy, and therefore I despair. I regret the lapse of 
time, because it glides away without enjoyment; and 
as I expect nothing in the future but the vanities of 
the past, I do not wish that the future should arrive.. 
Yet I tremble lest it should be cut off ; and my heart 
sinks, when I anticipate the moment, in which eternity 
shall close over the vacuity of my life, like the sea 
upon the path of a ship, and leave no traces of my 



Chap, r. Narrative Pieces* 33 

existence more durable than the farrow which remains 
after the waves have united. If in the treasures of 
thy wisdom, there is any precept to obtain felicity, 
vouchsafe it to me. For this purpose I am come: a 
purpose which yet I feared to reveal, lest, like all the 
former, it should be disappointed." Almet listened 
with looks of astonishment and pity, to this complaint 
of a being, in whom reason was known to be a pledge 
of immortality : but the serenity of his countenance, 
soon returned ; and stretching out his hands towards 
heaven, " Stranger," said he, " the knowledge which 
I have received from the prophet, I will communicate 
to thee. 

As I was sitting one evening at the porch of the 
temple, pensive and alone, my eye wandered among 
the multitude that was scattered before me ; and while 
I remarked the weariness and solicitude which were 
visible in every countenance, I was suddenly struck 
with a sense of their condition. Wretched mortals, 
said I, to what purpose are you busy? If to produce 
happiness, by whom is it enjoyed? Do the linens 
of Egypt, and the silks of Persia, bestow felicity on 
those who wear them, equal to the wretchedness of 
yonder slaves, whom I see leading the camels that 
bring them? Is the fineness of the texture, or the 
splendour of the tints, regarded with delight by those, 
to whom custom has rendered them familiar? or can 
the power of habit render others insensible of pain, 
who live only to traverse the desert j a scene of dread- 
ful uniformity, where a barren level is bounded only 
by the horizon; where no change of prospect, or 
variety of images, relieves the traveller from a sense of 
toil and danger ; of whirlwinds which in a moment 
may bury him in the sand, and of thirst which the 



S4 Sequel to the English, Reader. Part I. 

wealthy would have given half their possessions to allay ? 
Do those on whom hereditary diamonds sparkle with 
unregarded lustre, gain from the possession what is lost 
by the wretch who seeks them in the mine ; who lives 
excluded from the common bounties of nature ;' to 
whom even the vicissitude of day and night is not 
known j who sighs in perpetual darkness, and whose 
life is one mournful alternative of insensibility and 
labour? If those are not happy who possess, in pro- 
portion as those are wretched who bestow, how vain 
a dream is the life of man. ? And if there is, indeed, 
such difference in the value of existence, how shall we 
acquit of partiality the hand by which this difference 
has been made . ? 

While my thoughts thus multiplied, and my heart 
burned within me, I became sensible of a sudden in- 
fluence from above. The streets and the crowds of 
Mecca disappeared. I found myself sitting on the 
declivity of a mountain, and perceived at my right 
hand an angel, whom I knew to be Azoran, the 
minister of reproof. When I saw him, I wus afraid. 
I cast my eyes upon the ground, and was about to de- 
precate his anger, when he commanded me to be 
silent. a Almet," said he, u thou hast devoted thy life to 
meditation, that thy counsel might deliver ignorance 
from the mazes of error, and deter presumption from 
the precipice of guilt ; but the book of nature thou hast 
read without understanding: It is again open before 
thee : look up, consider it, and be wise." 

I looked up, and beheld an inclosure T beautiful as 
the gardens of paradise, but of a small extent. Through 
the middle, there was a green walk; at the end, a 
wild desert: and beyond, impenetrable darkness. 
The walk was shaded with trees o{ every kind, that 



Chap - K ^^^^' ie ^^^y^<^r^^ 

were- covered at once with blossoms and fruit ; innu- 
merable birds were singing in the branches; the grass 
was intermingled with flowers, which impregnated 
the breeze with fragrance, and painted the path with 
beauty. On the one side flowed a gentle transparent 
stream, which was just heard to murmur over the 
golden sands that sparkled at the bottom; and on the 
other, were walks and bowers, fountains, grottos, and 
cascades, which diversified the scene with endless va- 
riety, but did not conceal the bounds. 

While I was gazing in a transport of delight and 
wonder on this enchanting spot, I perceived a man 
stealing along the walk with a thoughtful and deliberate 
pace. His eyes were fixed upon the earth, and his 
arms crossed on his bosom ; he sometimes started as if 
a sudden pang had seized him; his countenance ex- 
pressed solicitude and terror ; he looked round with a 
sigh, and having gazed a moment on the desert that 
lay before him, he seemed as if he wished to stop, but 
was impelled forward by some invisible power. His 
features, however, soon settled again into a calm 
melancholy ; his eyes were again fixed on the ground, 
and he went on as before, with apparent reluctance, 
but without emotion. I was struck with this appear- 
ance ; and turning hastily to the angel, was about to 
inquire, what could produce such infelicity in a being, 
surrounded with every object that could gratify every 
sense; but he prevented my request: " The book of 
nature," said he, " is before thee ; look up, consider it, 
and be wise." I looked, and beheld a valley between 
two mountains that were craggy and barren. On the 
path there was no verdure, and the mountains afforded 
o shade ; the sun burned in the zenith, and every 
pring was dried up : but the valley terminated in a 




36 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

country that was pleasant and fertile, shaded with 
woods, and adorned with buildings. At a second view, 
I discovered a man in this valley, meagre indeed and 
naked, but his countenance was cheerful, and his 
deportment active. He kept his eye fixed upon the 
country before him, and looked as if he would have run, 
but that he was restrained, as the other had been im- 
pelled, by some secret influence. Sometimes, indeed, 
I perceived a sudden expression of pain, and sometimes 
he stepped short as if his foot was pierced by the as- 
perities of the way; but the sprightliness of his coun- 
tenance instantly returned, and he pressed forward 
without appearance of repining or complaint. 

I turned again towards the angel, impatient to in- 
quire from what secret source happiness was derived, 
in a situation so different from that in which it might 
have been expected ; but he again prevented my re- 
quest : " Almet," said he, " remember what thou hast 
seen, and let this memorial be written upon the tablets 
of thy heart. Remember, Almet, that the world in 
which thou art placed, is but the road to another; 
and that happiness depends not upon the path, but 
the end. The value of this period of thy existence, 
is fixed by hope and fear. The wretch who wished 
to linger in the garden, who looked round upon its 
limits with terror, was destitute of enjoyment, because 
he was destitute of hope, and was perpetually tor- 
mented by the dread of losing that which yet he did 
not enjoy. The song of the birds had been repeated 
till it was not heard, and the flowers had so often 
recurred, that their beauty was not seen ; the river 
glided by unnoticed, and he feared to lift his eye to 
the prospect, lest he should behold the waste that 
circumscribed it. But he that toiled through the 



Chap* 1. Narrative Pieces. 37 

valley was happy, because he looked forward with 
hope. Thus, to the sojourner upon earth, it is of little 
moment, whether the path he treads be strewed with 
flowers or with thorns, if he perceives himself to ap- 
proach those regions, in comparison of which the 
thorns and the flowers of this wilderness lose their 
distinction, and are both alike impotent to give plea- 
sure or pain." 

" What then has eternal wisdom unequally dis- 
tributed ? That which can make every station happy, 
and without which every station must be wretched, 
is acquired by virtue ; and virtue is possible to all.* 
Remember, Almet, the vision which thou hast seen; 
and let my words be written on the tablet of thy heart, 
that thou may st direct the wanderer to happiness, and 
justify God to man." 

While the voice of Azoran was yet sounding in my 
ear, the prospect vanished from before me, and I 
found myself again sitting at the porch of the temple. 
The sun was gone down, the multitude was retired 
to rest, and the solemn quiet of midnight concurred 
with the resolution of my doubts, to complete the 
tranquillity of my mind. 

Such, my son, was the vision which the prophet 
vouchsafed me, not for my sake only, but for thine. 
Thou hast sought felicity in temporal things; and 
therefore thou art disappointed. Let not instruction 
be lost upon thee; but go thy way, let thy flock 
clothe the naked, and thy table feed the hungry ; 
deliver the poor from oppression, and let thy conver- 
sation be above. Thus shalt thou " rejoice in hope," 
and look forward to the end of life, as the consumma- 
tion of thy felicity. 

D 



38 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

Almet, in whose breast devotion kindled as he spoke, 
returned into the temple, and the stranger departed in 
P e ace. hawkesworth. 

j 

SECTION VI. 

Religion and Superstition contrasted, 

A VISION. 

I had lately a veHfcemarkable dream, which made 
so strong an impressMion me, that I remember every 
word of it; and if }||lare not better employed, you 
may read the relation Of it as follows. 

I thought I was in the midst of a very entertaining 
set of company, and extremely delighted in attending 
to a lively conversation, when, on a sudden, I per- 
ceived one of the most shocking figures that imagination 
can frame, advancing towards me. She was dressed in 
black, her skin was contracted into a thousand wrinkles, 
her eyes deep sunk in her head, and her complexion 
pale and livid as the countenance of death. Her looks 
were filled with terror and unrelenting severity, and 
her hands armed with whips and scorpions. As soon 
as she came near, with a horrid frown, and a voice 
that chilled my very blood, she bade me follow her. 
I obeyed, and she led me through rugged paths, beset 
with briars and thorns, into a deep solitary valley. 
Wherever she passed, the fading verdure withered 
beneath her steps ; her pestilential breath infected 
the air with malignant vapours, obscured the lustre 
of the sun, and involved the fair face of heaven in 
universal gloom. Dismal bowlings resounded through 
the forest; from every baleful tree, the night raven 
uttered his dreadful note ; and the prospect was filled 



Chap, 1. Narrative Pieces, 39 

with desolation and horror. In the midst of this 
tremendous scene, my execrable guide addressed me 
in the following manner. 

u Retire with me, O rash, unthinking mortal ! from 
the vain allurements of a deceitful world ; and learn, 
that pleasure was not designed the portion of human 
life. Man was born to mourn and to be wretched. 
This is the condition of all below the stars ; and who- 
ever endeavours to oppose it, acts in contradiction to 
the will of heaven. Fly then from the fatal enchant- 
ments of youth and social delight, and here consecrate 
the solitary hours to lamentation and woe. Misery is 
the duty of all sublunary beings ; and every enjoyment 
is an offence to the Deity, who is to be worshipped 
only by the mortification of every sense of pleasure, 
and the everlasting exercise of sighs and tears." 

This melancholy picture of life quite sunk my spirits, 
and seemed to annihilate every principle of joy within 
me. I threw myself beneath a blasted yew, where the 
winds blew cold and dismal round my head, and dread- 
ful apprehensions chilled my heart. Here I resolved 
to lie till the hand of death, which I impatiently in- 
vokecl, should put an end to the miseries of a life so 
deplorably wretched. In this sad situation I espied on 
one hand of me a deep muddy river, whose heavy- 
waves rolled on in slow, sullen murmurs. Here I 
determined to plunge ; and was just upon the brink, 
when I found myself suddenly drawn back. I turned 
about, and was surprised by the sight of the loveliest 
object I had ever beheld. The most engaging charms 
o^you^h and beauty appeared in all her formf efful- 
gent glories sparkled in her eyes, and their awful 
splendours were softened by the gentlest looks o'f com- 
passion ancl peace. At her approach, the frightful 



40 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

spectre, who h s .d before tormented me, vanished away, 
and with her all the horrors she had caused. The 
gloomy clouds brightened into cheerful sunshine, the 
groves recovered their verdure, and the whole region 
looked gay and blooming as the garden of Eden. I 
was quite transported at this unexpected change, and 
reviving pleasure began to gladden my thoughts ; when, 
with a look of inexpressible sweetness, my beauteous 
deliverer thus uttered her divine instructions. 

" My name is Religion. I am the offspring of 
Truth and Love, and the parent of Benevolence, 
Hope, and Joy. That monster, from whose power I 
have freed you, is called Superstition: she is the 
child of Discontent, and her followers are Fear and 
Sorrow. Thus, different as we are, she has often the 
insolence to assume my name-and character: and seduces 
unhappy mortals to think .us the same, till she, at length, 
drives them to the borders of Despair, that dreadful 
abyss into which you were just going to sink." 

" Look round, and survey the various beauties of 
the globe, which heaven has destined for the seat of 
the human race ; and consider whether a world thus ex- 
quisitely framed, could be meant for the abode of 
misery and pain. For what end has the lavish hand 
of Providence diffused innumerable objects of delight, 
but that all might rejoice in the privilege of existence, 
and be filled with gratitude to the beneficent Author of 
it? Thus to enjoy the blessings he has sent, is virtue 
and obedience ; and to reject them merely as means of 
pleasure, is pitiable ignorance, or absurd perverseness. 
Infinite goodness is the source of created existence. The 
proper tendency of every rational being, from the high- 
est order of raptured seraphs, to the meanest rank of 
men, is, to rise incessantly from lower degrees of hap- 



Chap, 1. Narrative Pieces. 41 

piness to higher. They have faculties assigned them 
for various orders of delights." 

" What!" cried I, " is this the language of Religion ? 
Does she lead her votaries through flowery paths, and 
bid them pass an unlaborious life? Where are the 
painful toils of virtue, the mortifications of penitents, 



?)> 



and the self-denying exercises of saints and heroes? 

" The true enjoyments of a reasonable being," an- 
swered she mildly, " do not consist in unbounded in- 
diligence, or luxurious ease, in the tumult of passions, 
th^mgour of indolence, or the flutter of light amuse- 
ments. Yielding to immoral pleasure corrupts the 
mind ; living to animal and trifling ones, debases it : 
both in their degree disqualify it for its genuine good, 
and consign it over to wretchedness. Whoever would 
be really happy, must make the diligent and regular 
exercise of his superior poi&rs his chief attention ; 
adoring the perfections of his Maker, expressing good- 
will to his fellow-creatures, and cultivating inward 
rectitude. To his lower faculties he must allow such 
gratifications as will, by refreshing, invigorate his 
nobler pursuits. In the regions inhabited by angelic 
natures, unmingled felicity for ever blooms ; joy flows 
there with a perpetual and abundant stream, nor needs 
any mound to check its course. Beings conscious of 
a frame of mind originally diseased, as ail the human 
race has cause to be, must use the regimen of a stricter 
self-government. Whoever has been guilty of volun- 
tary excesses, must patiently submit both to the painful 
workings of nature, and needful severities of medicine, 
in order to his cure. Still he is entitled to a mod rate 
share of whatever alleviating accommodations this fair 
mansion of his merciful Parent affords, consistent vith 
his recovery. And, in proportion as this recover) ad- 

D 2 



42 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

varices, the liveliest joy will spring from his secrel 
sense of an amended and improving heart. — So fa 
from the horrors of despair is the condition even of the 
guilty. — Shudder, poor mortal, at the thought of the 
gulf into which thou was just now going to plunge." 

" While the most faulty have every encouragement 
to amend, the more innocent soul will be supported 
with still sweeter consolatiwis under all its experience 
of human infirmities, supported by the gladdening 
assurances, that every sincere endeavour to outgrow 
them, shall be assisted, accepted, and rewarded. JT o 
such a one, the lowliest self-abasement is but a ae«jl)- 
laid foundation for the most elevated hopes ; since they 
who faithfully examine and acknowledge what they 
are, shall be enabled under my conduct, to become 
what they desire. The christian and the hero are in- 
separable ; and to theJ^pirings of unassuming trust 
and filial confidence, are set no bounds. To him who 
is animated with a view of obtaining approbation from 
the Sovereign of the universe, no dif$culty is in- 
surmountable. Secure in this pursuit of every needful 
aid, his conflict with the severest pains and trials, is 
little more than the vigorous exercises of a mind in 
health. His patient dependence on that Providence 
which looks through all eternity, his silent resignation, 
his ready accommodation of his thoughts and behaviour 
to its inscrutable wavs, are at once the most excellent 
sort of self-denial, and a source of the most exalted 
transports. Society is the true sphere of human virtue. 
In social, active life, difficulties will perpetually be 
met with ; restraints of many kinds will be necessary; 
and studying to behave right in respect of these, is a # 
discipline of the human heart, useful to others, and 
improving to itself. Suffering is no duty, but where it 



Chap. 1. Narrative Pieces, 43 

is necessary to avoid guilt, or to do good; nor pleasure 
a crime, but where it strengthens the influence of bad 
inclinations, or^essens the generous activity of virtue. 
The happiness allotted to man in his present state, is 
indeed faint and low, compared with his immortal 
prospects, and noble capacities : but yet whatever 
portion of it the distributing hand of heaven offers to 
each individual, is a needful support and refreshment 
for the present moment, so far as it may not hinder the 
attaining of his final destination." 

leturn then w r ith me from continual misery, to 
derate enjoyment, and grateful alacrity: return 
from the contracted views of solitude, to the proper 
duties of a relative and dependent being. Religion is 
not confined to cells and closets, nor restrained to 
sullen retirement. These are the gloomy doctrines of 
Superstition, by which Vk endeavours to break 
those chains of benevolence and social affection, that 
link the welfare of every particular with that of the 
whole. Remember, that the greatest honour you can 
pay the Author of your being, is a behaviour so cheer- 
ful as discovers a mind satisfied with its own dispen- 




sations." 



Here my preceptress paused ; and I was going to 
express my acknowledgments for her discourse, when 
a ring of bells from the neighbouring village, and the 
new risen sun darting his beams through my windows, 
awoke me. carter. 



C 44 ) 
CHAPTER II. 



DIDACTIC PIECES. 



SECU^PN I. 

Vicious connexions the ruin of virtue. 

Among the numerous causes which introduce cor- 
ruption into the heart, and accelerate its growth, Me 
is more unhappily powerful than the contagion which 
is diffused by bad examples, and heightened by par- 
ticular connexions with persons of loose principles, or 
dissolute morals. This, in a licentious state of society, 
is the most common sodRe of those vices and disorders 
which so much abound in great cities ; and often 
proves, in a particular manner, fatal to the young ; even 
to them whose beginnings were once auspicious and 
promising. It may therefore be a useful employment 
of attention, to trace the progress of this principle of 
corruption; to examine the means by which "evil 
communications" gradually undermine, and at last de- 
stroy " good morals." It is indeed disagreeable to 
contemplate human nature, in this downward course 
of its progress. But it is always profitable to know 
our own infirmities and dangers. 

As certain virtuous principles are still inherent in 
human nature, there are few who set out at first in the 
world without good dispositions. The warmth which 
belongs to )^outh naturally exerts itself in generous 
feelings, and sentiments of honour j in strong attach- 
ment to friends, and the other emotions of a kind and 



Chap. 2. Didactic Pieces. 45 

tender heart. Almost all the plans with which persons 
who have been liberally educated, begin the world, 
are connected with honourable views. At th:it period, 
they repudiate whatever is mean or base. It is plea- 
sing to them to think of commanding the esteem of 
those among whom they live, and of acquiring a name 
among men. But alas ! how soon does this nattering 
prospect begin to be overcast! Desires of pleasure 
usher in temptation, and forward the growth of dis- 
orderly passions. Ministers of vice are seldom wanting 
to encourage and flatter the passions of the young. 
Inferiors study to creep into favour, by servile obse- 
quiousness to all their desires and humours. Glad to 
find any apology for the indulgences of which they are 
fond, the young too readily listen to the voice of those 
who suggest to them, that strict notions of religion, 
order, and virtue, are old fashioned and illiberal ,• that 
the restraints which they impose are only fit to be pre- 
scribed to those who are in the first state of pupillage ; 
or to be preached to the vulgar, who ought to be kept 
within the closest bounds of regularity and subjection. 
But the goodness of their hearts, it is insinuated to 
them, and the liberality of their views, will fully 
justify their emancipating themselves, in some degree, 
from the rigid discipline of parents and teachers. 

Soothing as such insinuations are to the youthful 
and inconsiderate, their first steps, however, in vice, 
are cautious and timid, and occasionally checked by 
remorse. As they begin to mingle more in the world, 
and emerge into the circles of gaiety and pleasure, 
finding these loose ideas countenanced by too general 
practice, they gradually become bolder in the liberties 
they take. If they have been bred to business, they 
begin to tire of industry, and look with contempt on 



46 Sequel to the English, Reader, Part I. 

the plodding race of citizens. If they are of superior 
rank, they think it becomes them to resemble their 
equals ; to assume that freedom of behaviour, that air 
of forwardness, that tone of dissipation, that easy neg- 
ligence of those with whom they converse, which ap- 
pear fashionable in high life. If affluence of fortune 
unhappily concurs to favour their inclinations, amuse- 
ments and diversions succeed in a perpetual round; 
night and day are confounded ; gaming fills up their 
vacant intervals; they live wholly in public places; 
they run into many degrees of excess, disagreeable 
even to themselves, merely from weak complaisance, 
and the fear of being ridiculed by their loose associates. 
Among these associates, the most hardened and deter- 
mined always take the lead. The rest follow them 
with implicit submission; and make proficiency in this 
school of iniquity, in exact proportion to the weakness 
of their understandings, and the strength of their 
passions. 

How many pass away, after this manner, some of 
the most valuable years of their life, tost in a whirl- 
pool of what cannot be called pleasure, so much as 
mere giddiness and folly ! In the habits of perpetual 
connexion with idle or licentious company, all reflec- 
tion is lost; while, circulated from one empty head, 
and one thoughtless heart, to another, folly shoots up 
into all its most ridiculous forms ; prompts the extra- 
vagant, unmeaning frolic in private; or sallies forth in 
public into mad riot ; impelled sometimes by intoxica- 
tion, sometimes by mere levity of spirits. 

Amidst this course of juvenile infatuation, I readily 
admit, that much good nature may still remain. Gene- 
rosity and attachments may be found ; nay, some awe 
of religion may still subsist, and some remains of those 



I 



Chap. 2. Didactic Pieces* &7 

good impressions which were made upon the mind in 
early days. It might yet be very possible to reclaim 
such persons, and to form them for useful and respect* 
able stations in the world, if virtuous and improving 
society should happily succeed to the place of that idle 
crew, with whom they now associate; if important 
business should occur, to bring them into a different 
sphere of action ; or, if some seasonable stroke of afflic- 
tion should in mercy be sent, to recall them to them- 
selves, and to awaken serious and manly thought. But, 
if youth, and vigour, and flowing fortune continue ; if a 
similar succession of companions go on to amuse them, 
to engross their time, and to stir up their passions ; the 
day of ruin, — let them take heed, and beware ! — the 
day of irrecoverable ruin, begins to draw nigh. Fortune 
is squandered; health is broken; friends pre ofunded, 
affronted, estranged ; aged parents, perhaps, sent 
afflicted and mourning to the dust. 

There are certain degrees of vice which are chiefly 
stamped with the character of the ridiculous, and the 
contemptible : and there are also certain limits, be- 
yond which if it pass, it becomes odious and detest- 
able. If, to other corruptions which the heart has 
already received, be added the infusion of sceptical 
principles, that worst of all the " evil communications" 
of sinners, the whole of morals is then on the point of 
being overthrown. For, every crime can then be pal- 
liated to conscience ; every check and restraint which 
had hitherto remained, is taken away. He who, in the 
beginrrig or his course, soothed himself with the 
thougl. ■■;, that while he indulged his desires, he did 
hurt to no man; now, pressed by the necessity of sup- 
plying those wants into which his expensive pleasures 
have brought him, goes on without remorse to defraud, 



48 Sequel to the English Reader. Par\ I. 

and to oppress. The lover of pleasure, now becomes 
hardened and cruel ; violates his trust, or betrays his 
friend; becomes a man of treachery, or a man of 
blood ; satisfying, or at least endeavouring all the while 
to satisfy himself, that circumstances form his excuse ; 
that by necessity he is impelled; and that, in gratify- 
ing the passions which nature had implanted within 
him, he does no more than follow nature. 

Miserable and deluded man! to what art thou come 
at the last? Dost thou pretend to follow nature, when 
thou art contemning the laws of the God of nature? 
when thou art stifling his voice within thee, which re- 
monstrates against thy crimes? when thou art violating 
the best part of thy nature, by counteracting the dic- 
tates of justice and humanity ? Dost thou follow nature, 
when thou renderest thyself a useless animal on the 
earth ; and not useless only, but noxious to the society 
to which thou belongest, and to which thou art a dis- 
grace; noxious, by the bad example thou hast set; 
noxious, by the crimes thou hast committed ; sacrificing 
innocence to thy guilty pleasures, and introducing 
shame and ruin into the habitations of peace ; defraud- 
ing of their due the unsuspicious who have trusted thee ; 
involving in the ruins of thy fortune many a worthy 
family; reducing the industrious and the aged to mi- 
sery and want ; by all which, if thou hast escaped the 
deserved sword of justice, thou hast at least brought on 
thyself the resentment, and the reproach, of all the 
respectable and the worthy. — Tremble then at the 
view of the gulf which is opening before thee. Look 
with horror at the precipice, on the brink of which 
thou standest: and if yet a moment be left for retreat, 
think how thou mayest escape^ and be saved. 

BLAIR. 



Chap* 2. Didactic Pieces. 49 

SECTION II. 

On Cheerfulness. 

* 

I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. 
The latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit of 
the mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness 
fixed and permanent. They who are subject to the 
greatest depressions of melancholy, are often raised into 
the greatest transports of mirth : on the contrary, cheer- 
fulness, though it does not give the mind a gladness so 
exquisite, prevents it from falling into any depths 
of sorrow. Mirth is like a tlash of lightning, that breaks 
through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment ; 
cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day-light in the mind, 
and nils it with a steady and perpetual serenity. 

Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too 
wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, and as 
filled with a certain triumph and insolence of heart, 
that are inconsistent with a life which is every moment 
obnoxious to the greatest dangers. 

Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to anv of these 
exceptions. It is of a serious and composed nature. 
It does not throw the mind into a condition improper 
for the present state of humanity; and is very conspi- 
cuous in the characters of those who are looked upon 
as the greatest philosophers among the heathens, as 
well as among those who have been deservedly esteemed 
as saints and holy men among Christians. 

If w r e consider cheerfulness in three lights, with re- 
gard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and to 
the great Author of our being, it will not a little re- 
commend itself on each of these accounts. The man 
who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind is 

E 



5*0 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

riot only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master Of 
all the powers and faculties of the soul : his imagination 
is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed; his 
temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or in 
solitude. He comes with a relish to all those goods 
which nature has provided for him; tastes all the 
pleasures of the creation which are poured around him ; 
and does not feel the full weight of those accidental 
evils which may befall him. 

If we consider him in relation to the persons with 
whom he converses, it naturally produces love and 
good-will towards him. A cheerful mind is not only 
disposed to be affable and obliging, but raises the same 
good humour in those who come within its influence. 
A man finds himself pleased, he does not know why, 
with the cheerfulness of his companion: it is like a 
sudden sunshine that awakens a secret delight in the 
mind, without her attending to it. The heart rejoices 
of its own accord, and naturally flows out into friend- 
ship and benevolence towards the person who has so 
kindly an effect upon it. 

When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its 
third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant 
habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. An 
inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanks- 
giving to Providence under all its dispensations- It is 
a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein re 

placed, and a secret approbation of the piivine . ;il in 
his conduct towards man. 

There are but two things, which, in my opinion, 
can reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulne trt. 

The first of these is, the sense of guilt. A man '10 
lives in a state of vice and impenitence, i \ . no 

title to that evenness and tranquillity of mind which 



Chap. 2. Didactic Pieces. 51 

are the health of the soul, and the natural effect of 
virtue and ianocence. Cheerfulness in a bad man 
deserves a harder name than language can furnish us 
with, and is many degrees beyond what we commonly 
call folly or madness. 

Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme 
Being, and consequently of a future state, under what- 
soever title it shelters itself, may likewise very reason- 
ably deprive a man of this cheerfulness of temper. 
There is something so particularly gloomy and offen- 
sive to human nature in the prospect of non-existence, 
that I cannot but wonder, with many excellent writers, 
how it is possible for a man to outlive the expectation 
of it. For my own part, I think the being of a God is 
so little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth 
we are sure of, and such a truth as we meet with in 
every object, in every occurrence, and in every thought. 
If we look into the characters of this tribe of infidels,, 
we generally find they are made up of pride, spleen, 
and cavil. It is indeed no wonder, that men, wh#^ 
are uneasy in themselves, should be so to the rest of 
the world ; and how is it possible for a man to be 
otherwise than uneasy in himself who is in danger 
every moment of losing his entire existence, and 
dropping into nothing? 

The vicious man and atheist have therefore no pre- 
tence to cheerfulness, and would act very unreason- 
ably, should they endeavour after it. It is impossible 
for any one to live in good humour, and enjoy his 
present existence, who is apprehensive either of tor- 
ment or of annihilation; of being miserable, or of not 
being at all. 

After having mentioned these two great principles, 
which are destructive of cheerfulness in their own na- 



52 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

ture, as well as in right reason, I cannot think of any 

other that ought to banish this happy temper from a 

virtuous mind, Pain and sickness, shame and reproach, 

poverty and old age, nay death itself, considering the 

shortness of their duration, and the advantage we may 

reap from them, do not deserve the name of evils. A 

good mind may bear up under them with fortitude, 

with tranquillity, and with cheerfulness of heart. The 

tossing of a tempest does not discompose him, who is 

sure it will bring him to a joyful harbour. 

A man who uses his best endeavours to live accord- 
ing to the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two 
perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in the consideration 
of his own nature, and of that Being on whom he has 
a dependence. If he looks into himself, he cannot but 
rejoice in that existence, which was so lately bestowed 
upon him, and which, after millions of ages, will be 
still new, and still in its beginning. How many self- 
congratulations naturally arise in the mind, when it 
reflects on this its entrance into eternity; when it 
takes a view of those improveable faculties, which in a 
i'tw years, and even at its first setting out, have made 
so considerable a progress, and which will be still re- 
ceiving an increase of perfection, and consequently an 
increase of happiness ! The consciousness of such a be- 
ing causes a perpetual diffusion of joy through the 
soul of a virtuous man; and makes him feel as much 
happiness as he is capable of conceiving. 

The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind, 
is, its consideration of that Being on whom we have 
our dependence, and in whom, though we behold him 
as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his perfec- 
tions, we see every thing that we can imagine as great, 
glorious, or amiable. We find ourselves every where 



Chap* 2. Didactic Pieces. 53 

upheld by his goodness, and surrounded with an im- 
mensity of love and mercy. In short, we depend upon 
a Being, whose power qualifies him to make us happy 
by an infinity of means; whose goodness and truth 
engage him to make those happy who desire it of him ; 
and whose unchangeableness will secure for us this 
happiness to all eternity. 

Such considerations, which every one should perpe- 
tually cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us ail 
that secret heaviness of heart, which unthinking men 
are subject to when they lie under no real affliction ; 
all that anguish which we may feel from any evil that 
actually oppresses us ; to which I may likewise add, 
those little cracklings of mirth and folly, that are apter 
to betray virtue than support it ; and establish in us 
so even and cheerful a temper, as will make us pleasing 
to ourselves, to those with whom we converse, and to 
Him whom we are made to please. 

ADDISON. 
SECTION III. 

Happy effects of contemplating the works of nature. 

With the Divine works we are in every place sur- 
rounded. We can cast our eyes no where, without 
discerning the hand of Him who formed them, if the 
grossness of our minds will only allow us to behold 
Him. Let giddy and thoughtless men turn aside a 
little from the haunts of riot. Let them stand stili, and 
contemplate the wondrous works of God; and make 
trial of the effect which such contemplation would pro- 
duce. — It were good for them that, even independ- 
ently of the Author, they were more acquainted with 

£2 



54 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

his works; good for them, that from the societies of 
loose and dissolute men, they would retreat to the 
scenes of nature ; would oftener dwell among them, 
and enjoy their beauties. This would form them to 
the relish of uncorrupted, innocent pleasures ; and 
make them feel the value of calm enjoyments, as supe- 
rior to the noise and turbulence of licentious gaiety. 
From the harmony of nature, and of nature's works, 
they would learn to hear sweeter sounds than those 
which arise from " the viol, the tabret, and the pipe." 

But to higher and more serious thoughts these works 
of nature give occasion, when considered in conjunc- 
tion with the Creator who made them. — Let me call 
on you, my friends, to catch some interval of reflection, 
some serious moment, for looking with thoughtful eye 
on the world around you. Lift your view to that im- 
mense arch of heaven which encompasses you above* 
Behold the sun in all his splendour rolling over your 
head by day ; and the moon by night, in mild and 
serene majesty, surrounded with that host of stars which 
present to your imagination an innumerable multitude 
of worlds. Listen to the awful voice of thunder. 
Listen to the roar of the tempest and the ocean. Sur- 
vey the wonders that fill the earth which you inhabit. 
Contemplate a steady and powerful Hand, bringing 
round spring and summer, autumn and winter, in re- 
gular course; decorating this earth with innumerable 
beauties, diversifying it with innumerable inhabitants; 
pouring forth comforts on all that live ; and, at the 
same time, overawing the nations with the violence of 
the elements, when it pleases the Creator to let them 
forth. — After you have viewed yourselves as sur- 
rounded with such a scene of wonders; after vou have 
beheld, on every hand, so astonishing a display of 



Chap* 2. Didactic Pieces. 55 

majesty united with wisdom and goodness; are you 
not seized with solemn and serious awe? Is there 
not something which whispers within, that to this 
great Creator reverence and homage are due by all 
the rational beings whom he has made ? Admitted to 
be spectators of his works, placed in the midst of so 
many great and interesting objects, can you believe 
that you were brought hither for no purpose, but to 
immerse yourselves in gross and brutal, or, at best, in 
trifling pleasures ; lost to all sense of the wonders 
you behold; lost to all reverence of that God who 
gave you being, and who has erected this amazing 
fabric of nature, on which you look only with stupid 
and unmeaning eyes? — No: let the scenes which you 
behold prompt correspondent feelings. Let them 
awaken you from the degrading intoxication of licen- 
tiousness, into nobler emotions. Every object which 
you view in nature, whether great or small, serves to 
instruct you. The star and the insect, the fiery me- 
teor and the flower of spring, the verdant field and 
the lofty mountain, all exhibit a supreme Power, be- 
fore which you ought to tremble and adore ; all preach 
the doctrine, all inspire the spirit, of devotion and re- 
verence. Regarding, then, the work of the Lord, 
let rising emotions of awe and gratitude call forth from 
your souls such sentiments as these; — w Lord, wherever 
I am, and whatever I enjoy, may I never forget thee, 
as the Author of nature ! May I never forget that I am 
thy creature and thy subject! In this magnificent temple 
of the universe, where thou hast placed me, may I ever 
be thy faithful worshipper ; and may the reverence and 
the fear of God be the first sentiments of my heart !" 

BLAIR. 



5G 



Sequel to the English Reader. Part u 



SECTION IV. 



Reflections on the universal presence of the Deity, 

In one of my late papers, I had occasion to consider 
the ubiquity of the Godhead, and at the same time to 
show, that as he is present to every thing, he cannot 
but be attentive to every thing, and privy to all the 
modes and parts of its existence : or, in other words, 
that his omniscience and omnipresence are co-existent, 
and run together through the whole infinitude of space. 
This consideration might furnish us with many incen- 
tives to devotion, and motives to morality ; but as this 
subject has been handled by several excellent writers, 
I shall consider it in a light in which I have not seen 
it placed by others. 

First, How disconsolate is the condition of an intel- 
lectual being, who is thus present with his Maker, 
but at the same time receives no extraordinary benefit 
or advantage from his presence! 

Secondly, How deplorable is the condition of an in- 
tellectual being, who feels no other effects from his 
presence, than such as proceed from divine wrath and 
indignation ! 

Thirdly, How happy is the condition of that intel- 
lectual being, who is sensible of his Maker's pre- 
sence, from the secret effects of his mercy and loving- 
kindness ! 

First, How disconsolate is the condition of an intel- 
lectual being, who is thus present with his Maker, but 
at the same time receives no extraordinary benefit or 
advantage from his presence ! Every particle of mat- 
ter is actuated by this Almighty Being which passes 
through it. The heavens and the earth, the stars and 



Chap, 2. Didactic Pieces. 57 

planets, move and gravitate by virtue of this great 
principle within them. All the dead parts of nature 
are invigorated by the presence of their Creator, and 
made capable of exerting their respective qualities. 
The several instincts, in the brute creation, do likewise 
operate and work towards the several ends which are 
agreeable to them, by this divine energy. Man only, 
who does not co-operate with his holy spirit, and is 
inattentive to his presence, receives none of those ad- 
vantages from it, which are perfective of his nature, 
and necessary to his well-being. The divinity is with 
him, and in him, and every where about him, but of 
no advantage to him. It is the same thing to a man 
without religion, as if there were no God in the world. 
It is indeed impossible for an infinite Being to remove 
himself from any of his creatures ; but though he can- 
not withdraw his essence from us, which would argue 
an imperfection in him, he can withdraw from us all 
the joys and consolations of it. His presence may per- 
haps be necessary to support us in our existence : but 
he may leave this our existence to itself, with regard 
to its happiness or misery. For, in this sense, he may 
cast us away from his presence, and take his holy spirit 
from us. This single consideration one would think 
sufficient to make us open our hearts to all those infu- 
sions of joy and gladness, which are so near at hand, 
and ready to be poured in upon us : especially when 
we consider, 

Secondly, the deplorable condition of an intellectual 
being, who feels no other effects from his Maker's 
presence, than such as proceed from divine wrath and 
indignation* We may assure ourselves, that the great 
Author of nature will not always be as one who is in- 
different to any of his creatures. Those who will not 



58 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

feel him in his love, will be sure at length to feel him 
in bis displeasure. And how dreadful is the condition 
of that creature, who is sensible of the being of his 
Creator, only by what he suffers from him ! He is as 
essentially present in hell as in heaven ; but the inha- 
bitants of those dismal regions behold him only in his 
wrath, and shrink within the flames to conceal them- 
selves from him. It is not in the power of imagina- 
tion to conceive the fearful effects of Omnipotence in- 
censed. 

But I shall only consider the wretchedness of an in- 
tellectual being, that, in this life, lies under the dis- 
pleasure of him, who, at all times, and in all places, is 
intimately united with him. He is able to disquiet 
the soul, and vex it in all its faculties. He can hinder 
any of the greatest comforts of life from refreshing us, 
and give an edge to every one of its slightest calami- 
ties. Who then can bear the thought of being an 
out-cast from his presence, that is from the comforts of 
it, or of feeling it only in its terrors ? How pathetic is 
that expostulation of Job, when for the real trial of 
his patience, he was made to look upon himself in this 
deplorable condition! u Why hast thou set me as a 
mark against thee, so that I am become a burden to 
myself?" 

But, thirdly, how happy is the condition of thatl 
intellectual being, who is sensible of his Maker's pre- 
sence, from the secret effects of his mercy and loving- 
kindness ! The blessed in heaven behold him face to 
face, that is, are as sensible of his presence as we are oil 
the presence of any person whom we look upon with] 
our eyes. There is doubtless a faculty in spirits, by| 
which they apprehend one another, as our senses dc 
material objects ; and there is no question but our souls, 



Chap. 2. Didactic Pieces. 59 

when they are disembodied, or placed in glorified 
bodies, will, by this faculty, in whatever part of space 
they reside, be always sensible of the divine presence. 
We, who have this veil of flesh standing between us 
and the world of spirits, must be content to know the 
spirit of God is present with us by the effects which he 
produces in us. Our outward senses are too gross to 
apprehend him. We may however taste and see how 
gracious he is, by his influence upon our minds; by 
those virtuous thoughts which he awakens in us; by 
those secret comforts and refreshments which he con- 
veys into our souls ; and by those ravishing joys and 
inward satisfactions which are frequently springing up, 
and diffusing themselves among the thoughts of good 
men. He is lodged in our very essence, and is as a 
soul within the soul, to irradiate its understanding, 
rectify its will, purify its passions, and enliven all the 
powers of man. How happy therefore is an intellec- 
tual being, who, by prayer and meditation, by virtue 
and good works, opens this communication between 
God and his own soul! Though the whole creation 
frowns, and all nature looks black about him, he has 
his light and support within, that are able to cheer his 
mind, and bear him up in the midst of ail these horrors 
which encompass him. He knows that his helper is 
at hand, and is always nearer to him than any thing 
can be, which is capable of annoying or terrifying 
him. In the midst of calumny or contempt, he attend* 
to that Being who whispers better things within his 
soul, and whom he looks upon as his defender, his 
glory, and the lifter-up of his head. In his deepest sor 
litude and retirement, he knows that he is in company 
with the greatest of beings; and perceives within him- 
self such real sensations of his presence, as are more 



60 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

delightful than any thing that can be met with in the 
conversation of his creatures. Even in the hour of 
death, he considers the pains of his dissolution to be 
only the breaking down of that partition, which stands 
betwixt his soui, and the sight of that Being who is al- 
ways present with him, and is about to manifest itself 
to him in fulness of joy. 

If we would be thus happy, and thus sensible of our 
Maker's presence, from the secret eifects of his mercy 
and goodness, we must keep such a watch over all our 
thoughts, that, in the language of scripture, his soul 
may have pleasure in us. We must take care not to 
grieve his holy spirit, and endeavour to make the me- 
ditations of our hearts always acceptable in his sight, 
that he may delight thus to reside and dv/ell in us. 
The light of nature could direct Seneca to this doc- 
trine, in a very remarkable passage in one of his epistles: 
" There is (says he) a holy spirit residing in us, who 
watches and observes both good and evil men, and will 
treat us after the same manner that we treat him." 
But I shall conclude this discourse with those more em- 
phatical words in divine revelation : u If a man love 
me, he will keep my words; and my father will love 
him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode 
with him." addison. 



( 61 ) 



CHAPTER III. 

ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 



SECTION I. 

Our imperfect knoxvledge of a future state, suited to the 

condition of man. 

The sceptic, who is dissatisfied with the obscurity 
which Divine Providence has wisely thrown over the 
future state, conceives that more information would be 
reasonable and salutary. He desires to have his view 
enlarged beyond the limits of this corporeal scene. 
Instead of resting upon evidence which requires dis- 
cussion, which must be supported by much reasoning, 
and which, after all, he alleges yields very imperfect 
information, he demands the everlasting mansions to 
be so displayed, as to place faith on a level with the 
evidence of sense. What noble and happy effects, he 
exclaims, woulc^instantly follow, if man thus beheld 
his present and his future existence at once before 
him! He would then become worthy of his rank in 
the creation. Instead of being the sport, as now, of 
degrading passions and childish attachments, he would 
act solely on the principles of immortality. His pur- 
suit of virtue would be steady; his life would be 
undisturbed and happy. Superior to the attacks 
of distress, and to the solicitations of pleasure, he 
would advance, by a regular progress, towards those 
divine rewards and honours which were continually 
present to his view. — Thus fancy, with as much 
ease and confidence as if it were a perfect judge of 



62 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

creation, erects a new world to itself, and exults with 
admiration of its own work. Bat let us pause, and 
suspend this admiration, till we coolly examine the 
consequences that would follow from this supposed re- 
formation of the universe. 

Consider the nature and circumstances of man. In- 
troduced into the world in an indigent condition, he is 
supported at first by the care of others ; and, as soon 
as he begins to act for himself, finds labour and in- 
dustry to be necessary for sustaining his life, and sup- 
plying his wants. Mutual defence and interest give 
rise to society ; and society, when formed, requires 
distinctions of property, diversity of conditions, sub- 
ordination of ranks, and a multiplicity of occupations, 
in order to advance the general good. The services 
of the poor, and the protection of the rich, become re- 
ciprocally necessary. The governors, and the govern- 
ed, must co-operate for general safety. Various arts 
must be studied ; some respecting the cultivation of the 
mind, others the care of the body ; some to ward off 
the evils, and some to provide the conveniences of 
life. In a word, by the destination of his Creator, 
and the necessities of his nature, man commences, at 
once, an active, not merely a contemplative being. 
Religion assumes him as such. It supposesxhim em- 
ployed in this world, as on a busy stage. It regulates, 
but does not abolish, the enterprises and cares of or- 
dinary life. It addresses itself to the various ranks in 
society; to the rich and the poor, to the magistrate 
and the subject. It rebukes the slothful ; directs the 
diligent how to labour; and requires every man to do 
his own business. 

Suppose, now, that veil to be withdrawn which con- 
ceals another world from our view. Le* all obscurity 



Chap, 3. Argumentative Pieces, 63 

vanish ; let us no longer " see darkly, as through a 
glass ;" but let every man enjoy that intuitive percep- 
tion of divine and eternal objects, which the sceptic 
was supposed to desire. The immediate effect of such 
a discovery would be to annihilate in our eye all hu- 
man objects, and to produce a total stagnation in the 
affairs of the world. Were the celestial glory exposed 
to our admiring view ; did the angelic harmony sound 
in our enraptured ears ; what earthly concerns could 
have the power of engaging our attention for a single 
moment? All the studies and pursuits, the arts and 
labours, which now employ the activity of man, which 
support the order, or promote the happiness of society, 
would lie neglected and abandoned. Those desires 
and fears, those hopes and interests by which we 
are at present stimulated, would cease to operate. 
Human life would present no objects sufficient to rouse 
the mind ; to kindle the spirit of enterprise, or to urge 
the hand of industry. If a mere sense of duty en- 
gaged a good man to take some part in the business of 
the world, the task, when submitted to, would prove 
distasteful. Even the preservation of life would be 
slighted, if he were not bound to it by the authority of 
God. Impatient of his confinement within this taber- 
nacle of dust, languishing for the happy day of his 
translation to those glorious regions which were dis- 
played to his sight, he would sojourn on earth as a me- 
lancholy exile. Whatever Providence has prepared 
for the entertainment of man, would be viewed with 
contempt. Whatever is now attractive in society, 
would appear insipid. In a word, he would be no 
longer a fit inhabitant of this world, nor be qualified 
for those exertions which are allotted to him in his 
present sphere of being. But, all his faculties being 



. 



64 Sequel to the English Reader. Parti. 

sublimated above the measure of humanity, he would 
be in the condition of a being of superior order, who, 
obliged to reside among men, would regard their pur- 
suits with scorn, as dreams, trifles, and puerile amuse- 
ments of a day. 

But to this reasoning it may perhaps be replied, that 
such consequences as I have now stated, supposing 
them to follow, deserve not much regard. — -For what 
though the present arrangement of human affairs were 
entirely changed, by a clearer view, and a stronger im- 
pression of our future state ; would not such a change 
prove the highest blessing to man t Is not his attach- 
ment to worldly objects the great source both of his 
misery and his guilt? Employed in perpetual contem- 
plation of heavenly objects, and in preparation for the 
enjoyment of them, would he not become more vir- 
tuous, and of course more happy, than the nature of 
his present employments and attachments permits him 
to be ? — Allowing for a moment, the consequence to be 
such, this much is yielded, that, upon the supposition 
which was made, man would not be the creature which 
he now is, nor human life the state which we now 
behold. How far the change would contribute to his 
welfare, comes to be considered. 

If there be any principle fully ascertained by reli- 
gion, it is, that this life was intended for a state of 
trial and improvement to man. His preparation for a 
better world required a gradual purification, carried 
on by steps of progressive discipline. The situation, 
therefore, here assigned him, was such as to answer 
this design, by calling forth all his active powers, by 
giving full scope to his moral dispositions, and bringing 
to light his whole character. Hence it became pro- 
per, that difficulty and temptation should arise in the 



Chap, 3. Argumentative Pieces. 65 

course of his duty. Ample rewards were promised to 
virtue ; but these rewards were left, as yet, in obscurity 
and distant prospect. The impressions of sense were 
so balanced against the discoveries of immortality, as 
to allow a conflict between faith and sense, between 
conscience and desire, between present pleasure and 
future good. In this conflict, the souls of good men 
are tried, improved, and strengthened. In this field, 
their honours are reaped. Here are formed the capi- 
tal virtues of fortitude, temperance, and self-denial ; 
moderation in prosperity, patience in adversity, submis- 
sion to the will of God, and charity and forgiveness to 
men, amidst the various competitions of worldly inter- 
est. 

Such is the plan of Divine wisdom for man's im- 
provement. But* put the case, that the plan devised 
by human wisdom were to take place, and that the 
rewards of the just were to be more fully displayed to 
view ; the exercise of all those graces which I have 
mentioned, would be entirely superseded. Their very 
names would be unknown. Every temptation being 
withdrawn, every worldly attachment being subdued 
by the overpowering discoveries of eternity, no trial 
of sincerity, no discrimination of characters, would re- 
main; no opportunity would be afforded for those 
active exertions, which aie the means of purifying and 
perfecting the good. On the competition between 
time and eternity, depends the chief exercise of hu- 
man virtue. The obscurity which at present hangs 
over eternal objects, preserves the competition. Re- 
move that obscurity, and you remove human virtue 
from its place. You overthrow that whole system of 
discipline, by which imperfect creatures are, in this life, 
gradually trained up for a more perfect state* 

r % 



66 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

This, then, is the conclusion to which at last we ar- 
rive j that the full display which was demanded, of 
the heavenly glory, would be so far from improving 
the human soul, that it would abolish those virtues and 
duties, which are the great instruments of its improve- 
ment. It would be unsuitable to the character of man 
in every view, either as an active being, or a moral 
agent. It would disqualify him from taking part in 
the affairs of the world; for relishing the pleasures, or 
for discharging the duties of life : in a word, it would 
entirely defeat the purpose of his being placed on this 
earth. And the question, why the Almighty has been 
pleased to leave a spiritual world, and the future ex- 
istence of man, under so much obscurity, resolves in 
the end into this, why there should be such a creature 
as man in the universe of God? — Such is the issue of 
the improvements proposed to be made on the plan s of/ 
Providence. They add to the discoveries of the supP?" 
rior wisdom of God, and of the presumption and folly 
of man. blair. 

section II. 

Youth the proper season for gaining 1 knowledge, and 
forming religious habits. 

The duty which young people owe to their instruc- 
tors, cannot be better shown, than in the effect which 
the instructions they receive have upon them. They 
■would do well therefore to consider the advantages 
of an early attention to these two things, both of great 
importance, knowledge and religion. 

The great use of knowledge, in all its various branches, 
(to which the learned languages are generally consider- 



Chap. 3. Argumentative Pieces, 67 

ed as an introduction,) is to free the mind from the pre- 
judices of ignorance ; and to give it juster and more en- 
larged conceptions, than are the mere growth of rude 
nature. By reading, we add the experience of others 
to our own. It is the improvement of the mind chiefly, 
that makes the difference between man and man ; and 
gives one man a real superiority over another. 

Besides, the mmd must be employed. The lower 
orders of men have their attention much engrossed by 
those employments, in which the necessities of life en- 
gage them : and it is happy that they have. Labour 
stands in the room of education ; and fills up those va- 
cancies of mind, which, in a state of idleness, would 
be engrossed by vice. And if they, who have more 
leisure, do not substitute something in the room of this, 
their minds also will become the prey of vice ; and the 
more so, as they have the means to indulge it more in 
their power. A vacant mind is exactly that house 
mentioned in the gospel, which the devil found empty. 
In he entered; and taking with him seven other spirits 
more wicked than himself, they took possession. It is 
an undoubted truth, that one vice indulged, introduces 
others ; and that each succeeding vice becomes more 
^depraved. — If then -the mind must be employed, what 
'can fill up its vacuities more rationally than the acqui- 
sition of knowledge ? Let us therefore thank God for 
the opportunities he has afforded us; and not turn 
4 into a curse those means of leisure, which might be- 
come so great a blessing. 

But however necessary to us knowledge may be, 
religion, we know, is infinitely more so. The one 
adorns a man, and gives him, it is true, superiority, 
and rank in life ; but the other is absolutely essential 
to his happiness. 



68 Sequel to the English Reader* Part u 

In the midst of youth, health, and abundance, the 
world is apt to appear a very gay and pleasing scene ; 
it engages our desires ; and, in a degree, satisfies them, 
also. But it is wisdom to consider, that a time will 
come, when youth, health, and fortune, will all fail 
us: and if disappointment and vexation do not sour 
our taste for pleasure, at least sickness and infirmities 
will destroy it. In these gloomy seasons, and, above 
all, at the approach of death, what will become of us 
without religion ? When this world fails, where shall 
we fly, if we expect no refuge in another? Without 
holy hope in God, and resignation to his will, and 
trust in him for deliverance, what is there that can se- 
cure us against the evils of life ? 

The great utility therefore of knowledge and reli- 
gion being thus apparent, it is high!) incumbent upon 
us to pay a studious attention to them in our youth. If 
we do not, it is more than probable that we shall never 
do it: that we shall grow old in ignorance, by neglect- 
ing the one ; and old in vice, by neglecting the other. 

For improvement in knowledge, youth is certainly 
the fittest season. The mind is then ready to receive 
any impression. It is free from all that care and atten- 
tion which, in riper age, the affairs of life bring with 
them. The memory too is stronger and better able 
to acquire the rudiments of knowledge ; and as the mind 
is then void of ideas, it is more suited to those parts 
of learning which are conversant in words. Besides, 
there are sometimes in youth a modesty and ductility, 
which, in advanced years, if those years especially 
have been left a prey to ignorance, become self suffi- 
ciency and prejudice; and these effectually bar up all 
the inlets to knowledge.- — But, above all, unless habits 
of attention and application are early gained, we shall 



Chap, 3. Argumentative Pieces. 69 

scarcely acquire them afterwards. — The inconsiderate 
youth seldom reflects upon this ; nor knows his loss, 
till he knows also that it cannot be retrieved. 

Nor is youth more the season to acquire knowledge, 
than to form religious habits. It is a great point to 
get habit on the side of virtue: it will make every 
thing smooth and easy. The earliest principles are 
generally the most lasting; and those of a religious cast 
are seldom wholly lost. Though the temptations of 
the world may, now and then, draw the well-principled 
youth aside ; yet his principles being continually 
at war with his practice, there is hope, that in the 
end the better part may overcome the worse, and bring 
on a reformation: whereas he, who has suffered habits 
of vice to get possession of his youth, has little chance 
of being brought back to a sense of religion. In the 
common course of things it can rarely happen. Some 
calamity must rouse him. He must be awakened by a 
«torm, or sleep for ever. — How much better is it then 
to make that easy to us, which we know is best ! And 
to form those habits now, which hereafter we shall 
wish we had formed ! 

There are persons, who would restrain youth from 
imbibing any religious principles, till they can judge for 
themselves j lest they should imbibe prejudice for truth. 
But why should not the same caution be used in science 
also ; and the minds of youth left void of all impressions? 
The experiment, I fear, in both cases, would be dan- 
gerous. If the mind were left uncultivated during so 
long a period, though nothing else should find en- 
trance, vice certainly would: and it would make the 
larger slioots, as the soil would be vacant. It would 
be better that young persons receive knowledge and 
religion mixed with error, than none at all. For wheu 



70 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

the mind comes to reflect, it may deposit its prejudices 
by degrees, and get right at last: but in a state of 
stagnation it will infallibly become foul. 

To conclude, our youth bears the same proportion 
to our more advanced life, as this world does to the 
next. In this life we must form and cultivate those ha- 
bits of virtue, which will qualify us for a better state. 
If we neglect them here, and contract habits of an op- 
posite kind, instead of gaining that exalted state, which 
is promised to our improvement, we shall of course sink 
into that state, which is adapted to the habits we have 
formed. 

Exactly thus is youth introductory to manhood; to 
which it is, properly speaking, a state of preparation. 
During this season we must qualify ourselves for the 
parts we are to act hereafter. In manhood we bear 
the fruit, which has in youth been planted. If we 
have sauntered away our youth, we must expect to be 
ignorant men. If indolence and inattention have 
taken an early possession of us, they will probably in- 
crease as we advance in life ; and make us a burden to 
ourselves, and useless to society. If again, we suffer 
ourselves to be misled by vicious inclinations, they 
will daily get new strength, and end in dissolute lives. 
But if we cultivate our minds in youth, attain habits 
of attention and industry, of virtue and sobriety, we 
shall find ourselves well prepared to act our future 
parts in life ; and what above all things ought to be 
©ur care, by gaining this command over ourselves, we 
shall be more aole, as we get forward in the world, to 
resist every new temptation, as soon as it appears. 

GILPIN. 



Chap. 3. Argumentative Pieces. 71 



SECTION III. 

The truth of Christianity proved, from the conversion 

of the Apostle Paul.* 

The conversion of St. Paul, with all its attendant 
circumstances, furnishes one of the most satisfactory 
proofs, that have ever been given, of the Divine origin 
of our holy religion. That this eminent person, from 
being a zealous persecutor of the disciples of Christ, 
became, all at once, a disciple himself, is a fact which 
cannot be controverted, without overturning the credit 
of all history. He must, therefore, have been con- 
verted in the miraculous manner alleged by himself, 
and of course the Christian religion be a Divine reve- 
lation ; or he must have been an impostor, an enthusiast, 
or a dupe to the fraud of others. There is not another 
alternative possible. 

If he was an impostor, who declared what he knew 
to be false, he must have been induced to act that part, 
by some motive. But the only conceivable motives 
for religious imposture, are, the hopes of advancing 
one's temporal interest, credit or power; or the pros- 
pect of gratifying some passion or appetite, under the 
authority of the new religion. That none of these 
couia be St. Paul's motive for professing the faith of 
Christ crucified, is plain from the state of Judaism and 
Christianity, at the period of his forsaking the former, 
and embracing the latter faith. Those whom he left, 
were the disposers of wealth, of dignity, of power, in 

* This piece is extracted from the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." 
It is an abridgement of Lord Lyttleton's celebrated ■« Observations 
on the Conversion of St. Paul." 



72 Sequel to the English Reader. Parti. 

Judea: those to whom he went, were indigent men, 
oppressed, and kept from all means of improving, their 
fortunes. The certain consequence, therefore, of his 
taking the part of Christianity, was the loss not only 
of ail that he possessed, but of all hopes of acquiring 
more: whereas, by continuing to persecute the 
Christians, he had hopes, rising almost to certainty, of 
making his fortune by the favour of those who were at 
the head of the Jewish state, to whom nothing could 
so much recommend him, as the zeal which he had 
shown in that persecution.' — As to credit or reputation, 
could the scholar of Gamaliel hope to gain either, by 
becoming ateacher in a college of fishermen? Could 
he flatter himself, that the doctrines which he taught 
would, either in or out of Judea, do him honour, when 
he knew that " they were to the Jews a stumbling- 
block, and to the Greeks foolishness?" — Was it then 
the love of power, that induced him to make this 
great change ? Power ! over whom ? over a flock of 
sheep, whom he himself had endeavoured to destroy, 
and whose very Shepherd had lately been murdered ! — 
Perhaps it was with the view of gratifying some licen- 
tious passion, under the authority of the new religion, 
that he commenced a teacher of that religion ! This 
cannot be alleged: for his writings breathe nothing 
but the strictest morality; obedience to magistrates, 
order, and government; with the utmost abhorrence of 
all licentiousness, idleness, or loose behaviour, under 
the cloak of religion. We no where read in his works, 
that saints are above moral ordinances ; that dominion 
is founded in grace ; that monarchy is despotism which 
ought to be abolisl that the fortunes of the rich 

ougnt to be divided aong the poor; that there is no 
difference in moral actions ; that any impulses of the 



Chap, 3, Argumentative Pieces, 73 

mind are to direct us against the light of revealed 
religion and the laws of nature ; or any of those wicked 
tenets, by which the peace of society has been often 
disturbed, and the rules of morality have been often 
violated, by men pretending to act under the sanction 
of Divine revelation. He makes no distinctions, like 
the impostor of Arabia, in favour of kimself j nor does 
any part of his life, either before or after his con- 
version to Christianity, bear any mark of a libertine 
disposition. As among the Jews, so among the 
Christians, his conversation and manners were blame- 
less. 

As St. Paul was not an impostor, so it is plain he was 
not an enthusiast. Heat of temper, melancholy, igno- 
rance, credulity, and vanity, are the ingredients of 
which enthusiasm is composed : but from all these, 
except the first, the apostle appears to have been 
wholly free. That he had great fervour of zeal, both 
when a Jew and when a Christian, in maintaining what 
he thought to be right, cannot be denied: but he was 
at all times so much master of his temper, as, in matters 
of indifference, to " become all things to all men ;" 
with the most pliant condescension, bending his notions 
and manners to theirs, as far as his duty to God would 
permit ; a conduct compatible neither with the stiff- 
ness of a bigot, nor with the violent impulses of fana- 
tical delusion. — .That he was not melancholv, is plain 
from his conduct in embracing every method, which 
prudence could suggest, to escape danger and shun 
persecution, when he could do it, without betraying 
the duty of his office, or the honour of his God. A 
melancholy enthusiast courts persecution; and when 
he cannot obtain it, afflicts himself w r ith absurd pe- 
nances : but the holiness of St. Paul consisted in the 

G 



^4 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

simplicity of a pious life, and in the unwearied per- 
formance of his apostolical duties. — That he was ig- 
norant, no man will allege who is not grossly ignorant 
himself; for he appears to have been master, not only 
of the Jewish learning, but also of the Greek philo- 
sophy, and to have been very conversant even with 
the Greek poets. — That he was not credulous, is plain 
from his having resisted the evidence of all the miracles 
performed on earth by Christ, as well as those that 
were afterwards worked by the apostles; to the fame 
of which, as he lived in Jerusalem, he could not have 
been a stranger. — And that he was as free from vanity 
as any man that ever lived, may be gathered from ail 
that we see in his writings, or know of his life. He 
represents himself as the least of the apostles', and not 
meet to be called an apostle. He says that he is the 
chief of sinners ; and he prefers, in the strongest terms, 
universal benevolence to faith, and prophecy, and 
miracles, and all the gifts and graces with which he 
could be endowed. Is this the language of vanity or 
enthusiasm ? 

Having thus shown that St. Paul was neither an im- 
postor nor an enthusiast, it remains only to be inquired, 
whether he was deceived by the fraud of others : but 
this inquiry needs not be long; for who was to deceive 
him ? A few illiterate fishermen of Galilee ? It was 
morally impossible for such men to conceive the thought 
of turning the most enlightened of their opponents, 
and the cruellest of their persecutors, into an apostle ; 
and to do this by a fraud, in the very instant of his 
greatest fury against them and their Lord. But could 
they have ..been so extravagant as to conceive such a 
thought, it was physically impossible for them to ex- 
ecute it in the manner in which we find his conversion 



Chap, 3. Argumentative Pieces. 75 

was effected. Could they produce a light in the air, 
which at mid-day was brighter than the sun ? Could 
they make Saul hear words from that light, which 
were not heard by the rest of the company? Could 
they make him blind for three days alter that vision, 
and then make scales fall from his eyes, and restore 
him to sight by a word? Or, could they make him, 
and those who travelled with him, believe that all 
these things had happened, if they had not happened i 1 
Most unquestionably no fraud was equal to all this. 

Since then St. Paul was not an impostor, an en- 
thusiast, or a person deceived by the fraud of others, 
it follows, that his conversion was miraculous, and that 
the Christian religion is a Divine revelation. 



( 76 ) 

CHAPTER IV. 

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 



SECTION I. 

The heavens and the earth show the glory and the wis- 
dom of their Creator. — The earth happily adapted to 
tfie nature of man. 

The universe may be considered as the palace in 
which the Deity resides; and the earth, as one of its 
apartments. In this, all the meaner races of animated 
nature mechanically obey him j and stand ready to 
execute his commands, without hesitation. Man alone 
is found refractory: he is the only being endued with 
a power of contradicting these mandates. The Deity 
was pleased to exert superior power in creating him a 
superior being; a being endued with a choice of 
good and evil ; and capable, in some measure, of co- 
operating with his own intentions. Man, therefore, 
may be considered as a limited creature, endued with 
powers imitative of those residing in the Deity. He 
is thrown into a world that stands in need of his help ; 
and he has been granted a power of producing har- 
mony from partial confusion. 

If, therefore, we consider the earth as allotted for 
cur habitation, we shall find, that much has been given 
us to enjoy, and much to amend ; that we have ample 
reasons for our gratitude, and many for our industry. 
In those great outlines of nature, to which art cannot 
reach, and where our greatest efforts must have been 



Chap. 4. Descriptive Pieces* 77 

s 

V_ 

ineffectual, God himself has finished every thing with' 
amazing grandeur and beauty. Our beneficent Father 
has considered these parts of nature as peculiarly his 
own; as parts which no creature could have skill or 
strength to amend ; and he has, therefore, made them 
incapable of alteration, or of more perfect regularity. 
The heavens and the firmament show the wisdom 
and the glory of the Workman. Astronomers, who 
are best skilled in the symmetry of systems, can find 
nothing there that they can alter for the better. God 
made these perfect, because no subordinate being could 
correct their defects. 

When, therefore, we survey nature on this side, 
nothing can be more splendid, more correct, or amaz- 
ing. We there behold a Deity residing in the midst 
of a universe, infinitely extended every way, animating 
all, and cheering the vacuity with his presence. We 
behold an immense and shapeless mass of matter, form- 
ed into worlds by his power, and dispersed at inter- 
vals, to which even the imagination cannot travel. In 
•this great theatre of his glory, a thousand suns, like 
our own, animate their respective systems, appealing 
and vanishing at Divine command. We behold our 
own bright luminary, fixed in the centre of its System, 
wheeling its planets* in times proportioned to their 
distances, and at once dispensing light, heat, and action. 
The earth also is seen with its twofold motion; pro- 
ducing, by the one, the change of seasons ; and, by the 
other, the grateful vicissitudes of day and night. With 
what silent magnificence is all this performed! with 
what seeming ease! The works of art are exerted with 
interrupted force ; and their noisy progress discovers 
the obstructions they receive ; but the earth, with a 
silent, steady rotation, successively presents every part 

G 2 



78 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. ■ 

of its bosom to the sun j at once imbibing nourishment 
and light from that parent of vegetation and fertility. 

But not only provisions of heat and light are thus 
supplied; the whole surface of the earth is covered 
with a transparent atmosphere, that turns with its mo- 
tion, and guards it from external injury. The rays of 
the sun are thus broken into a genial warmth ; and, 
while the surface is assisted, a gentle heat is produced 
in the bowels of the earth, which contributes to cover 
it with verdure. Waters also are supplied in health- 
iul abundance, to support life, and assist vegetation. 
Mountains rise, to diversify the prospect, and give a 
current to the stream. Seas extend from one conti- 
nent to the other, replenished with animals, that may 
be turned to human support ; and also serving to en- 
rich the earth with a sufficiency of vapour. Breezes 
fiy along the surface of the fields, to promote health 
and vegetation. The coolness of the evening invites 
to rest ; and the freshness of the morning renews for 
labour. 

Such are the delights of the habitation that has 
been assigned to man: without any one of these, he 
must have been wretched ; and none of these could his 
own industry have supplied. But while, on the one 
hand, many of his wants are thus kindly furnished, 
there are, on the other, numberless inconveniences to 
excite his industry. This habitation, though provided 
with all the conveniences of air, pasturage, and water, 
is but a desert place, without human cultivation. 
The lowest animal finds more conveniences in the 
wilds of nature, than he who boasts himself their lord. 
The whirlwind, the inundation, and all the asperities 
of the air, are peculiarly terrible to man, who knows 
their consequences, and, at a distance, dreads their 



Chap, 4. Descriptive Pieces, 79 

approach. The earth itself, where human art has not 
pervaded, puts on a frightful, gloomy appearance. 
The forests are dark ana tangled ; the meadows are 
overgrown with rank "weeds; and the brooks stray 
without a determined channel. Nature, that has 
been kind to every lower order of beings, seems to 
have been neglectful with regard to him: to the 
savage uncontriving man, the earth is an abode of 
desolation, where his shelter is insufficient, and his 
food precarious. 

A world thus furnished with advantages on one side, 
and inconveniences on the other, is the proper abode 
of reason, and the fittest to exercise the industry of a 
free and a thinking creature. These evils, which art 
can remedy, and prescience guard against, are a proper 
call for the exertion of his faculties; and they tend 
still more to assimilate him to his Creator. God be- 
holds, with pleasure, that being which he has made, 
converting the wretchedness of his natural situation 
into a theatre of triumph; bringing all the headlong 
tribes of nature into subjection to his will; and pro- 
ducing that order and uniformity upon earth, of which 
his own heavenly fabric is so bright an example. 

GOLDSMITH* 
SECTION II. 

An eruption of Mount Vesuvius, 

In the year 1717, in the middle of April, with 
much difficulty I reached the top of mount Vesuvius, 
in which I saw a vast aperture full of smoke, that hin- 
dered me from seeing its depth and figure. I heard 
within that horrid gulf, extraordinary sounds, which 



80 Sequel to the English Reader \ Part i. 

seemed to proceed from the bowels of the mountain; 
and, at intervals, a noise like that of thunder or cannon, 
with a clattering like the falling of tiles from the 
tops of houses into the streets. Sometimes, as the 
wind changed, the smoke grew thinner, discovering a 
very ruddy flame, and the circumference of the crater 
streaked with red and several shades of vellow. After 
an hour's stay, the smoke being moved by the w r ind, 
w r e had short and partial prospects of the great hollow ; 
in the flat bottom of which I could discern two fur- 
naces almost contiguous: that on the left, seeming 
about three yards over, glowing with ruddy flame, and 
throwing up red hot stones, with a hideous noise, 
which, as they fell back, caused the clattering already 
taken notice of. May 8, in the morning, I ascended 
the top of Vesuvius a second time, and found a different 
face of things. The smoke ascending upright, afforded 
a full prospect of the crater, which, as tar as I could 
judge, was about a mile in circumference, and a 
hundred yards deep. Since my last, visit, a conical 
mount had been formed in the middle of the bottom. 
This was made by the stones, thrown up and fallen 
back again into the crater. In this new hill remained 
the two furnaces already mentioned. The one was seen 
to throw up every three or four minutes, with a dread- 
ful sound, a vast number of red hot stones, at least 
three hundred feet higher than my head: but as there 
was no wind, they fell perpendicularly back from 
whence they had been discharged. The other was 
filled with red hot liquid matter, like that in the fur- 
nace of a glass-house ; raging and working like the 
waves of the sea, with a short abrupt noise. This 
matter sometimes boiled over, and ran down the side 
of the conical hill, appearing at first red hot, but 



Chap, 4. Descriptive Pieces* 81 

changing colour as it hardened and cooled. Had the 
wind set towards us, we should have been in no small 
danger of being stifled by the sulphurous smoke, or 
killed by the masses of melted minerals that were shot 
from the bottom. But as the wind was favourable, I 
had an opportunity of surveying this amazing scene for 
above an hour and an half together. On the fifth of 
June, after a horrid noise, the mountain was seen at 
Naples to work over; and about three days after, its 
thunders were so renewed, that not only the windows 
in the city, but all the houses shook. From that time, 
it continued to overflow, and sometimes at night exhi- 
bited columns of lire shooting upward from its summit. 
On the tenth, when all was thought to be over, the 
mountain again renewed its terrors, roaring and raging 
most violently. One cannot form a juster idea of the 
noise, in the most violent fits of it, than by imagining 
a mixed sound, made up of the raging of a tempest, 
the murmur of a troubled sea, and the roaring of thun- 
der and artillery, all confused together. Though we 
heard this at the distance of twelve miles, yet it was 
very terrible. We resolved to approach nearer to the 
mountain ; and, accordingly, three or four of us en- 
tered a boat, and were set ashore at a little town, 
situated at the foot of the mountain. From thence we 
rode about four or five miles before we came to the 
torrent of fire that was descending from the side of the 
volcano ; and here the roaring grew exceedingly loud 
and terrible. I observed a mixture of colours in the 
cloud, above the crater, green, yellow, red, blue. 
There was likewise a ruddy dismal light in the air, 
ever that tract where the burning river flowed. These 
circumstances, set off and augmented by the horror 
of the night, formed a scene the most uncommon and 



82 » Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

astonishing I ever saw ; which still increased as we ap- 
proached the burning river. A vast torrent of liquid 
fire rolled from the top, down the side of the moun- 
tain, and with irresistible fury bore down and con- 
sumed vines, olives, and houses ; and divided into dif- 
ferent channels, according to the inequalities of the 
mountain. The largest stream seemed at least half 
a mile broad, and five miles long. I walked before my 
companions so far up the mountain, along the side of 
the river of fire, that I was obliged to retire in great 
haste, the sulphurous steam having surprised me, and 
almost taken away my breath. During our return, 
which was about three o'clock in the morning, the 
roaring of the mountain was heard all the way, while 
we observed it throwing up huge spouts of fire and 
burning stones, which failing, resembled the stars in a 
rocket. Sometimes I observed two or three distinct 
columns of flame, and sometimes one only that was 
large enough to fill the whole crater. These burning 
columns, and fiery stones, seemed to be shot a thou- 
sand feet perpendicular above the summit of the vol- 
cano. In this manner the mountain continued raging 
for six or eight days after. On the eighteenth of the 
same month the whole appearance ended, and Vesu- 
vius remained perfectly quiet, without any visible 
smoke or flame. bishop Berkley. 

section III. 

Description of the preparations made by Xerxes, the 
Persian monarch, for invading Greece* 

In the opening of spring, Xerxes directed his march 
towards the Hellespont, where his fleet lay in all their 



Chap* 4. • Descriptive Pieces. 8 



ej 



pomp, expecting his arrival. When he came to this 
place, he was desirous of taking a survey of all his 
forces, which formed an army that was never equalled 
either hefore or since. It was composed of the most 
powerful nations of the East, and of people scarcely 
known to posterity, except by name. The remotest 
India contributed its supplies, while the coldest tracts 
of Scythia sent their assistance. Medes, Persians, Bac- 
trians, Lydians, Assyrians, Hyrcanians, and many other 
nations of various forms, complexions, languages, dresses 
and arms, united in this grand expedition. The land 
army, which he brought out of Asia, consisted of seven- 
teen hundred thousand foot, and four-score thousand 
horse. Three hundred thousand more.^hat were added 
upon crossing the Hellespont, made his land forces all 
together amount to above two millions of men. His 
fleet, when it set out from Asia, consisted of twelve 
hundred and seven vessels, each carrying two hundred 
men. The Europeans augmented his fleet with a 
hundred and twenty vessels, each of which carried two 
hundred men. Besides these, there were two thousand 
smaller vessels fitted for carrying provisions and stores. 
The men contained in these, with the former, amounted 
to six hundred thousand; so that the whole army 
might be said to amount to two millions and a half; 
which, with the women, sla^fT^sl suftlers, always 
accompanying a Persian armyi^migh'f make the whole 
above five millions of souls: g n^ml^r, if rightly con- 
ducted, capable of overturning, the greatest monarchy ; 
but which, commanded by presumptiotfrand ignorance, 
served only to obstruct and embarrass each other. 

Lord of so many and such various subjects, Xerxes 
found a pleasure in reviewing his forces; and was de- 
sirous of beholding a naval engagement, of which he, 



84 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

had not hitherto been a spectator. To this end a 
throne was erected for him upon an eminence ; and in 
that situation beholding the earth covered with his 
troops, and the sea crowded with his vessels, he felt 
a secret joy diffuse itself through his frame, from the 
consciousness of his own superior power. But all the 
workings of this monarch's mind were in the extreme : 
a sudden sadness soon took place of his pleasure ; and 
dissolving in a shower of tears, he gave himself up to a 
reflection, that not one of so many thousands would be 
alive a hundred years after. 

Artabanus, the king's uncle, who was much disposed 
to moralize on occurrences, took this occasion to dis- 
course with him upon the shortness and miseries of 
human life. Finding this more distant subject attended 
to, he spoke closely to the present occasion ; insinuated 
his doubfi|of the success of the expedition ; urged the 
many inconveniencies the army had to suffer, if not 
from the enemy, at least from their own numbers. He 
alleged, that plagues, famine, and confusion, were the 
necessary attendants of such ungovernable multitudes ; 
and that empty fame was the only reward of success. 
But it was now too late to turn this young monarch 
from his purpose. Xerxes informed his monitor, that 
great actions were always attended with proportionable 
danger : and that if 4iis predecessors had observed such 
scrupulous and timorous rules of conduct, the Persian 
empire would never have attained to its present height 
of glory. ^ 

Xerxes, in the mean time, had given orders to build 
a bridge of boats across the Hellespont, for transporting 
his army into Europe. This narrow strait, which now 
goes by the name of the Dardanels, is nearly an Eng- 
lish mile over. But soon after the completion of this 



Chap. 4. 3escrzptive Pieces. 85 

work, a violent storm arising, the whole was broken 
and destroyed, and the labour was to be undertaken 
anew. The fury of Xerxes upon this disappointment 
was attended with equal extravagance and cruelty. 
His vengeance knew no bounds. The workmen who 
had undertaken the task, had their heads struck offby his 
order; and that the sea itself might also know its duty, 
he ordered it to be lashed as a delinquent, and a pair 
of fetters to be thrown into it, to curb its future irre- 
gularities. Thus having given vent to his absurd re- 
sentment, two bridges were ordered to be built in 
the place of the former, one for the army to pass over* 
and the other for the baggage and the beasts of burden. 
The workmen, now warned by the fate of their prede- 
cessors, undertook to give their labours greater stability. 
They placed three hundred and sixty vessels across the 
strait, some of them having three banks ojipars and 
others fifty oars a piece. They then cast Ivfgt anchors 
into the water on both sides, in order to fix these ves- 
sels against the violence oS the winds, and the current. 
After this they drove large piles into the earth, with 
huge rings fastened to them, to which were tied six 
vast cables that went over each of the two bridges. 
Over all'ttlese they laid trunks of trees, cut purposely 
for that use, and flat boats again over them fastened 
and joined together, so as to serje for a floor or solid 
bottom. When the whole work was thus completed, 
a day was appointed for their passing over,* and as 
soon as the first rays of the sun began totopear, sweet 
odours of all kinds were abundantly scattered over the 
new work, and the way was strewed with myrtle. At 
the same time Xerxes poured out libations into the 
sea ; and turning his face towards the East, worshipped 
that bright luminary, which is the god of the Persians. 

H 



86 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

Then, throwing the vessel which had held his libation 
into the sea, together with a golden cup and Persian 
Scimitar, he went forward, and gave orders for the 
army to follow. This immense train was seven days 
and seven nights in passing over; while those who 
were appointed to conduct the march, quickened the 
troops by lashing them along; for the soldiers of the 
East, at that time, and to this very day, are treated like 
slaves. > 

This great army having landed in Europe, and being 
joined there by the several nations that acknowledged 
the Persian power, Xerxes prepared for marching di- 
rectly forward into Greece. After a variety of disastrous 
and adverse advents, suffered in the prosecution of his 
vain-glorious design, this haughty monarch was com- 
pelled to relinquish it. Leaving his generals to take 
care of th^army, he hastened back, with a small retinue, 
to the sea^tte. When he arrived at the place, he found 
the bridge broken down by the violence of the waves, 
in a tempest that had lately happened there. He was, 
therefore, obliged to pass the strait in a small boat; 
which manner of retufUtng, being compared with the 
ostentatious method in which he had set out, rendered 
his disgrace stiil more poignant and z$&tjtfr ^ ne 
army which he had ordered to follow; Kim, having been 
unprovided with necessaries, suffered great hardships 
by the way. After having consumed all the corn they 
could find, they were .obliged to live upon herbs, and 
even upon the bark and leaves of trees. Thus 
harrassed and fatigued, a pestilence began to complete 
their misery; and, after a fatiguing journey of forty- 
five days, in whten they were pursued rather by vul- 
tures and beasts of prey than by men, they came to 
the Hellespont, where they had crossed over; and 



Chap. 4. Descriptive Pieces. 87 

marched thence to Sardis. Such was the end of 
Xerxes' expedition into Greece : a measure begun in 
pride, and terminated in infamy. goldsmith. 

section IV. 

Character of Martin Luther. 

As Luther was raised up by Providence to be the 
author of one of the greatest and most interesting re- 
volutions recorded in history, there is not perhaps any 
person, whose character has been drawn with such 
opposite colours. In his own age, one party, struck 
with horror and inflamed with rage, when they saw 
with what a daring hand he overturned every thing 
which they held to be sacred, or valued as beneficial, 
imputed to him not only all the defects and*vices of a 
man, but the qualities of a demon. The other, 
warmed with admiration and gratitude, which they 
thought he merited, as the restorer of light and liberty 
to the Christian church, ascribed to him perfections 
above the condition of humanity ; and viewed all his 
actions with a veneration bordering on that, which 
should be paid to those only who are guided by the im- 
mediate inspiration of heaven. It is his own conduct, 
not the undistinguishing censure, nor the exaggerated 
praise of his contemporaries, which ought to regulate 
the opinions of the present age concerning him. Zeal 
for what he regarded as truth, undaunted intrepidity 
to maintain it, abilities both natural and acquired to 
defend it, and unwearied industry to propagate it, are 
virtues which shine so conspicuously in every part of 
his behaviour, that even his enemies must alLw him to 
have possessed them in an eminent degree. To these 



88 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I, 

may be added, with equal justice, such purity, and even 
austerity of manners, as became one who assumed the 
character of a reformer ; such sanctity of life as suited 
the doctrine which he delivered ; and disinterestedness 
so perfect, as affords no slight presumption of his 
sincerity. Superior to all selfish considerations, a stran- 
ger to the elegances of life, and despising its pleasures, 
he left the honours and emoluments of the church to 
his disciples; remaining satisfied himself in his original 
state of professor in the university, and pastor to the 
town of Wittemberg, with the moderate appointments 
annexed to these offices. 

His extraordinary qualities were alloyed with no in- 
considerable mixture of human frailty, and human pas- 
sions. These, however, were of such a nature, that 
they cannot be imputed to malevolence or corruption 
of heart,*"but seem to have taken their rise from the 
same source with many of his virtues. His mind for- 
cible and vehement in all its operations, roused by 
great objects, or agitated by violent passions, broke 
out, on many occasions, with an impetuosity which 
astonishes men of feebler spirits, or such as are placed 
in a more tranquil situation. By carrying some praise- 
worthy dispositions to excess, he bordered sometimes 
on what was culpable, and was often betrayed into 
actions which exposed him to censure. His confidence 
that his own opinions were well founded, approached 
to arrogance ; his courage in asserting them, to rash- 
ness; his firmness in adhering to them, to obstinacy; 
and his zeal in confuting his adversaries, to rage and 
scurrility. Accustomed himself to consider every thing 
as subordinate to truth, he expected the same defe- 
rence for it from other men ; and, without making any 
allowances for their timidity or prejudices, he poured 



Chap. 4. Descriptive Pieces. 

forth, against those who disappointed him in this 
ticular, a torrent of invective mingled with contei 
Regardless of any distinction of rank or character, v 
his doctrines were attacked, he chastised all his ad 
saries indiscriminately, with the same rough hand : 
ther the royal dignity of Henry VIII. nor the emi 
learning and ability of Erasmus, screened them 1 
the abuse with which he treated Tetzel or Ed 
But these indecencies of which Luther was gi; 
must not be imputed wholly to the violence of his i 
per. They ought to be charged in part on the r 
ners of the age. Among a rude people, unacquai 
with those maxims, which, by putting continua 
straint on the passions of individuals, have polishei 
ciety, and rendered it agreeable, disputes of e 
kind were managed with heat; and strong emo 
were uttered in their natural language,, withoul 
serve or delicacy. At the same time, the worl 
learned men were all composed in Latin ; and 
were not only authorized, by the example of emi 
writers in that language, to use their antagonists 
the most illiberal scurrility ; but, in a dead tongue 
decencies of every kind appear less shocking than 
living language, whose idioms and phrases seem g 
because they are familiar. 

In passing judgment upon the characters of i 
we ought to try them by the principles and maxin 
their own age, not by those of another. For althc 
virtue and vice are at all times the same, manners 
customs vary continually. Some parts ol Luther' 
haviour, which to us appear most culpable, gav 
disgust to his contemporaries. It was even by s 
of those qualities which we are now apt to blame, 
he was fitted for accomplishing the great work \v 

H 2 



SO Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

he undertook. To rouse mankind, when sunk in ig- 
norance or superstition, and to encounter the rage of 
bigotry armed with power, required the utmost vehe- 
mence of zeal, and a temper daring to excess. A gentle 
call would neither have reached, nor have excited 
those to whom it was addressed. A spirit more ami- 
able, but less vigorous than Luther's would have shrunk 
from the dangers which he braved and surmounted. 
Towards the close of Luther's life, though without a 
perceptible declension of his zeal or abilities, the infir- 
mities of his temper increased upon him, so that he 
iaily grew more peevish, more irascible, and more im- 
patient of contradiction. Having lived to be witness 
)f his own amazing success ; to see a great part of Eu- 
ope embrace his doctrines ; and to shake the founda- 
ion of the papal throne, before which the mightiest 
lonarchs had trembled, he discovered, on some occa- 
ions, symptoms of vanity and self-applause. He must 
ave been indeed more than man, if, upon contem- 
lating all that he actually accomplished, he had never 
:lt any sentiment of this kind rising in his breast. 
Some time before his death he felt his strength de- 
ining, his constitution being worn out by a prodi- 
ous multiplicity of business, added to the labour of 
ischarging his ministerial function with unremitting 
Jigence, to the fatigue of constant study, besides the 
>mposition of works as voluminous as if he had en- 
yed uninterrupted leisure and retirement. His:nat-^ 
ral intrepidity did not forsake him at the approach of 
eath. His* last conversation with his friends was con- 
erning the happiness reserved for good men in a future , 
■oriel; of which he spoke with the fervour and de- 
ght natural to one, who expected and wished to enter 
oon upon the enjoyment of it, Robertson, 



Chap. 4. Descriptive Pieces. 



section v. 

The good and the bad man compared in the season 

adversity. 

Religion prepares the mind for encountering, wi 
fortitude, the most severe shocks of adversity ; where 
vice, by its natural influence on the temper, ten 
to produce dejection under the slightest trials. Whi 
worldly men enlarge their possessions, and extei 
their connexions, they imagine that they are strengt 
ening themselves against all the possible vicissitud 
of life. They say in their hearts, " My mounta 
stands strong, and I shall never be moved." But 
fatal is their delusion, that, instead of strengthenin 
they are weakening that which only can support the 
when those vicissitudes come. It is their mind whit 
must then support them ; and their mind, by their se 
sual attachments, is corrupted and enfeebled. Addict< 
with intemperate fondness to the pleasures of tl 
world, they incur two great and certain evils: th< 
both exclude themselves from ever) 7 resource exce 
the world ; and they increase their sensibility to eve] 
blow which comes upon them from that quarter. 

They have neither principles nor temper which a 
stand the assault of trouble. They have no principl 
which lead them to look beyond the ordinary rotatic 
of events; and therefore, when misfortunes invob 
them, the prospect must be comfortless on every sid 
Their crimes have disqualified them from looking i 
to the assistance of any higher power than their ovi 
ability, or for relying on any better guide than the 
own wisdom. And as from principle they can derii 



2 Sequel to the English Reader* Part I. 

o support, so in a temper corrupted by prosperity 
icy find no relief. They have lost that moderation of 
lind which enables a wise man to accommodate him- 
ilf to his situation. Long fed with false hopes, they 
re exasperated and stung by every disappointment. 
iUxurious and effeminate, they can bear no uneasiness, 
'roud and presumptuous, they can brook no opposition. 
Jy nourishing dispositions which so little suit this un- 
ertain state, they have infused a double portion of 
itterness into the cup of woe ; they have sharpened 
he edge of that sword which is lifted up to smite 
hem. Strangers to all the temperate satisfactions of 

good and a pure mind; strangers to every pleasure 
xcept what was seasoned by vice or vanity, their ad- 
ersity is to the last degree disconsolate. Health and 
>pulence were the two pillars on which they rested, 
make either of them ; and their whole edifice of hope 
md comfort falls. Prostrate and forlorn, they are left 
>n the ground; obliged to join with the man of 
iphraim, in his abject lamentation, " They have taken 
iway my gods, which I have made, and what have I 
nore?" — Such are the causes to which we must ascribe 
he broken spirits, the peevish temper, and impatient 
passions that so often attend the declining age, or 
ailing fortunes of vicious men. 

But how different is the condition of a truly good 
nan, in those trying situations of life ! Religion had 
gradually prepared his mind for all the events of this 
inconstant state.. It had instructed him in the nature 
Df true happiness. It had early weaned him from an 
undue love of the world, by discovering to him its 
vanity, and by setting higher prospects in his view. 
Afflictions do not attack him by surprise, and therefore 
do not overwhelm him. He was equipped for the 



Chap, 4. Descriptive Pieces. 9 



rt 



storm, as well as the calm, in this dubious navigation 
of life. Under those conditions he knew himself to be 
brought hither ; that he was not always to retain the 
enjoyment of what he loved ; and therefore he is not 
overcome by disappointment, when that which is 
mortal, dies : when that which is mutable, begins to 
change ; and when that which he knew to be tran° 
sient, passes away. 

All the principles which religion teaches, and all 
the habits which it forms, are favourable to strength 
of mind. It will be found, that whatever purifies, 
fortifies also the heart. In the course of living 
" righteously, soberly, and piously," a good man ac- 
quires a steady and well-governed spirit. Trained, by 
Divine grace, to enjoy with moderation the advantages 
of the world, neither lifted up by success, nor enervated 
with sensuality, he meets the changes in his lot without 
unmanly dejection. He is inured to temperance and 
restraint. He has learned firmness and self-command. 
He is accustomed to look up to that Supreme Provi- 
dence, which disposes of human affairs, not with reve- 
rence only, but with trust and hope. 

The time of prosperity was to him not merely a sea- 
son of barren joy, but productive of much useful im- 
provement. He had cultivated his mind. He had 
stored it with useful knowledge, with good principles, 
and virtuous dispositions. These resources remain en- 
tire, when the days of trouble come. They remain 
with him in sickness, as in health ; in poverty, as in 
the midst of riches ; in his dark and solitary hours, no 
less than when surrounded with friends and gay society. 
From the glare of prosperity, he can, without dejec- 
tion, withdraw into the shade. Excluded from several 
advantages of the world, he may be obliged to retreat 



♦ 



94 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

into a narrower circle ; but within that circle he will 
find many comforts left. His chief pleasures were al- 
ways of the calm, innocent, and temperate kind; and 
over these, the changes of the world have the least 
power. His mind is a kingdom to him ; and he can 
still enjoy it. The world did not bestow upon him ail 
his enjoyments ; and therefore it is not in the power 
of the world, by its most cruel attacks, to carry them 
all away. bi,air. 



95 

CHAPTER V, 
PATHETIC PIECES, 

SECTION I. 

Rome saved by Female Virtue. 

Coriol anus was a distinguished Roman Senator and 

* General, who had rendered eminent services to the 
Republic. But these services were no security against 

• envy, and popular prejudices. He was at length treat- 
ed with great severity and ingratitude, by the senate 
and people of Rome ; and obliged to leave his country 
to preserve his life. Of a haughty and indignant spirit, 
he resolved to avenge himself; and, with this view, 
applied to the Volscians, the enemies of Rome, and 
tendered them his services against his native country. 
The offer was cordially embraced, and Coriolanus was 
made general of the Volscian army. He recovered 
from the Romans all the towns they had taken from 
the Volsci ; carried by assault several cities in Latium ; 
and led his troops within five miles of the city of Rome. 
After several unsuccessful embassies from the senate, 
all hope of pacifying the injured exile appeared to be 
extinguished ; and the sole business at Rome was to 
prepare, with the utmost diligence, for sustaining a 
siege. The young and able-bodied men had instantly 
the guard of the gates and trenches assigned to them ; 
Iwhile those of the veterans, who, though exempt by 
their age from bearing arms, were yet capable of ser- 
lvice, undertook the defence of the ramparts. The 
[women, in the mean while, terrified by these move- 



9S Sequel to the English Reader, Part i. 

ments, and the impending danger, into a neglect of 
their wonted decorum, ran tumultuously from their 
houses to the temples. Every sanctuary, and especially 
the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, resounded with the 
Waitings and loud supplications of women, prostrate be- 
fore the statues of their divinities. In this general 
consternation and distress, Valeria, (sister of the famous 
Valerius Poplicola,) as if moved by a divine impulse, 
suddenly took her stand upon the top of the steps of the 
temple of Jupiter, assembled the women about her, 
and having first exhorted them not to be terrified by 
the greatness of the present danger, confidently de- 
clared, " That there was yet hope for the republic ; that 
its preservation depended upon them, and upon their 
performance of the duty they owed their country." — 
" Alas !" cried one of the company, a what resource can 
there be in the weakness of wretched women, when our 
bravest men, our ablest warriors themselves despair:" — 
u It is not by the sword, nor by strength of arm," replied 
Valeria " that we are to prevail ; these belong not to our 
sex. Soft moving words must be our weapons and our 
force. Let us all, in our mourning attire, and accom-r 
panied by our children, go and entreat Veturia, the 
mother of Coriolanus, to intercede with her son for our 
common country. Veturia's prayers will bend his soul 
to pity. Haughty and implacable as he has hitherto 
appeared, he has not a heart so cruel and obdurate, as 
not to relent, when he shall see his mother, his revered, 
his beloved, mother, a weeping suppliant at his feet." 

This motion being universally applauded, the whole 
train of women took their way to Veturia's house. Her 
son's wife, Voiumnia, who was sitting with her when 
they arrived, and was greatly surprised at their coming, 
hastily asked them the meaning of so extraordinary an 



Chap* o. Pathetic Pieces, $7 

appearance. " What is it," said she, " what can be 
the motive that has brought so numerous a company 
of visitors to this house of sorrow ?" 

Valeria then addressed herself to the mother: " It is 
to you, Veturia, that these women have recourse in the 
extreme peril, with which they and their children are 
threatened. They entreat, inplore, conjure you, to 
compassionate their distress, and the distress of our 
common country. Suffer not Rome to become a prey 
to the Volsci, and our enemies to triumph over our li- 
berty. Go to the camp of Coriolanus: take with you 
Volumnia and her two sons: let that excellent wife 
join her intercession to yours. Permit these women 
with their children to accompany you ; they will all 
cast themselves at his feet. O Veturia, conjure him to 
grant peace to his fellow-citizens. Cease not to beg 
till you have obtained. So good a man can never 
withstand your tears : our only hope is in you. Come 
then, Veturia : the danger presses ; you have no time 
for deliberation ; the enterprise is worthy of your vir- 
tue ; Heaven will crown it with success; Rome shall 
once more owe its preservation to our sex. * You will 
justly acquire to yourself an immortal fame,' and have 
the pleasure to make every one of us a sharer in your 
glory." 

Veturia, after a short silence, with tears in her eyes, 
answered: " Weak indeed is the foundation of your 
hope, Valeria, when you place it in the aid of two 
miserable women. We are not wanting in affection 
to our country, nor need we any remonstrance or en- 
treaties to excite our zeal for its preservation. It is 
the power only of being serviceable that fails us. Ever 
since that unfortunate hour, when the people in their 
madness so unjustly banished Coriolanus, his heart has 



98 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

been no less estranged from his family than from his 
country. You will be convinced of this sad truth by 
his own words to us at parting. When he returned 
home from the assembly, where he had been condemn- 
ed, he found us in the depth of affliction, bewail- 
ing the miseries that were sure to follow our being de- 
prived of so dear a son, and so excellent a husband. 
We had his children upon our knees. He kept him- 
self at a distance from us ; and, when he had a while 
stood silent, motionless as a rock, his eyes fixed, and 
without-shedding a tear; i 'Tis done,' he said, — ' O mo- 
ther, and thou Volumnia, the best of wives, to you 
Marcius is no more. I am banished hence for my 
affection to my country, and jhe services I have done it. 
I go this instant ; and J leav% for ever a city, where all 
good men afe proscribed. Support this blow of for- 
tune with the magnanimity that becomes women of 
your high,rank and virtue. I commend my children to 
your care. Educate*them in a manner worthy of you, 
and of the race from which they come. Heaven grant, 
they may be more fortunate, than their father, and 
never fall short of him in virtue ; and may you in them 
find your consolation! — Farewell.' ' 

" We started up at the sound of this word, and with 
loud cries of lamentation ran to him to receive his 
last embraces. I led his elder son by the hand, Volum- 
nia had the younger in her arms. He turned his eyes 
from us, and putting us back with his hand, 4 Mother,' 
said he, c from this moment you have no son : our coun- 
try has taken from you the stay of your old age. — Nor 
to you, Volumnia, will Marcius be henceforth a hus- 
band; mayst thou be happy with another, more for- 
tunate! — My dear children, you have lost your father.* 



Chap, 5. Pathetic Pieces. 99 

" He said no more, but instantly broke away from 
us. He departed from Rome without settling his do- 
mestic affairs, or leaving any orders about them ; with- 
out money, without servants, and even without letting 
us know, to what part of the world he would direct his 
steps. It is now the fourth year since he went away ; 
and he has never inquired after his family, nor, by 
letter or messenger, given us the least account of him- 
self: so that it seems as if his mother and his wife were 
the chief objects of that general hatred which he shows 
to his country. 

a What success then can y6u expect from our en- 
treaties to a man so implacable? Can two women 
bend that stubborn heart, which even all the ministers 
of religion were not able to soften ? And indeed what 
shall I say to him ? What "can I reasonably desire of 
him ? that he would pardon ungrateful citizens, who 
have treated him as the vilest criminal? that he would 
take compassion upon a furious, unjust populace, which 
hjpkpo regard for his innocence ? And that he would 
betray a nation, which has not only opened him an 
asylimi, but has even preferred him to her most illus- 
trious citizens in the command of her armies? With 
what face can I ask him to abandon such generous pro- 
tectors^and deliver himself again into the hands of his 
most bitter enemies? Can a Roman mother, and a 
Roman%ife, with decency, exact, from a son and a 
husband, compliances which must dishonour him before 
both gods and men ? Mournful circumstance, in which 
we have not power to hate the most formidable enemy 
of our country ! Leave us therefore to our unhappy 
destiny; and do not desire us to make it more un- 
happy by an action that may cast a blemish upon our 
virtue." ' . \ 



100 Sequel to the English Reader* Part i. 

The women made no answer but by their tears and 
entreaties. Some embraced her knees; others be- 
setched Volumnia to join her prayers to theirs ; all 
conjured Veturia not to refuse her country this last 
assistance. Overcome at length by their urgent solici- 
tations, she promised to do as they desired. 

The very next day all the most illustrious of the Ro- 
man women repaired to Veturia's house. There they 
presently mounted a number of chariots, which the 
consuls had ordered to be made ready for them, and, 
without any guard, took the way to the enemy's 
camp. 

Coriolanus, perceiving from afar that long train of 
chariots, sent out some horsemen to learn the design of 
it. They quickly brought him word, that it was his 
mother, his wife, and a great number of other women, 
and their children, coming to the camp. He doubt- 
less conjectured what views the Romans had in so extra- 
ordinary a deputation; that this was the last expedient 
of the senate ; and, in his own mind, he determined not 
to let himself be moved. But he reckoned upon a savage 
inflexibility that was not in his nature : for, going out 
with a few attendants to receive the women, he no 
sooner beheld Veturia attired in mourning, her eyes 
bathed in tears, and with a countenance and motion 
that spoke her sinking under a load of sorrow, than he 
ran hastily to her ; and not only calling her mother, 
but adding to that word the most tender epithets, em- 
braced her, wept over her, and held her in his arms to 
prevent her falling. The like tenderness he presently 
after expressed to his wife, highly commending her 
discretion in having constantly remained with his 
mother, since his departure from Rome. And then, 
with the warmest paternal affection, he caressed his 
children. 



.♦ 



Chap, 5. Pathetic Pieces, 101 

When some time had been allowed to those silent 
tears of joy, which often flow plenteously at the sudden 
and unexpected meeting of persons dear to each other, 
Veturia entered upon the business she had undertaken. 
After many forcible appeals to his understanding and 
patriotism, she exclaimed : " What frenzy, what mad- 
ness of anger transports my son ! Heaven is appeased 
by supplications, vows, and sacrifices: shall mortals 
be implacable? Will Marcius set no bounds to his re- 
sentment? But allowing that thy enmity to thy country 
is too violent to let thee listen to her petition for 
peace ; yet be not deaf, my son, be not inexorable to 
the prayers and tears of thy mother. Thou dreadest 
the very appearance of ingratitude towards the Volsci ; 
and shall thy mother have reason to accuse thee of 
being ungrateful? Call to mind the tender care I took 
of thy infancy and earliest youth; the alarms, the 
anxiety, I suffered on thy account, when, entered into 
the state of manhood, thy life was almost daily exposed 
in foreign wars; the apprehensions, the terrors, I un- 
derwent when I saw thee so warmly engaged in our 
domestic quarrels, and with heroic courage, opposing 
the unjust pretensions of the furious plebeians. My 
sad forebodings of the event have been but too well 
verified. Consider the wretched life I have endured, 
if it may be called life, the time that has passed since 
I was deprived of thee. O Marcius refuse me not the 
only request I ever made to thee ; I will never im- 
portune thee with any other. Cease thy immoderate 
anger; be reconciled to thy country; this is all I ask; 
grant me but this and we shall both be happy. Freed 
from those tempestuous passions which now agitate thy 
soul, and from all the torments of self-reproach, thy 
days will flow smoothly on in the sweet serenity of 

i 2 



102 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

conscious virtue : and as for me, if I carry back to 
Rome the hopes of an approaching peace, an assuranc 
of thy being reconciled to thy country, with what 
transports of joy shall I be received ! In what honour, 
in what delightful repose, shall I pass the remainder 
of my life! What immortal glory shall I have ac- 
quired !" 

Coriolanus made no attempt to interrupt Veturia 
while she was speaking; and when she had ceased, he 
still cbntiued in deep silence. Anger, hatred, and 
desire of revenge, balanced in his heart those softer 
passions which the sight and discourse of his mother 
had awakened in his breast. Veturia perceiving his 
irresolution, and fearing the event, thus renewed her 
expostulation : " Why dost thou not answer me, 
my son? Is there then such greatness of mind in giving 
all to resentment? Art thou ashamed to grant any 
thing to a mother who thus entreats thee, thus humbles 
herself to thee ? If it be so, to what purpose should I 
longer endure a wretched life ?" As she uttered these 
last words, interrupted by sighs, she threw herself 
prostrate at his feet. His wife and children did the 
same; and all the other women, with united voices of 
mournful accent, begged and implored his pity. 

The Volscian officers, not able unmoved to behold 
this scene, turned away their eyes : but Coriolanus, 
almost beside himself to see Veturia at his feet, passion- 
ately cried out " Ah ! mother, what art thou doing ?" 
And, tenderly pressing her hand, in raising her up, he 
added, in a low voice, " Rome is saved, but thy son is 
lost!" 

Early the next morning, Coriolanus broke up his 
camp, and peaceably marched his army homewards. 
Nobody had the boldness to contradict his orders. 



Chap. 5. Fat he tic Pieces. 103 

Many were exceedingly dissatisfied with his conduct; 
but others excused it, being more affected with his 
filial respect to his mother, than with their own in- 
terests. HOOKE'S ROMAN HISTORY. 



SECTION II. 

Execution of Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Queen Mary determined to bring Cranmer, whom 
she had long detained in prison, to punishment; and 
in order more fully to satiate her vengeance, she re- 
solved to punish him for heresy, rather than for trea- 
son. He was cited by the Pope to stand his trial at 
Rome ; and though he was known to be kept in close 
custody at Oxford, he was, upon his. not appearing, 
condemned as contumacious. Bonner, bishop of Lon- 
don, and Thirleby, bishop of Ely, were sent to degrade 
him ; and the former executed the melancholy cere- 
mony, with all the joy and exultation which suited his 
savage nature. The implacable spirit of the Queen> 
not satisfied with the future misery of Cranmer, which 
she believed inevitable, and with the execution of 
that dreadful sentence to which he was condemned, 
prompted her also to seek the ruin of his honour, and 
the infamy of his name. Persons were employed to 
attack him, not in the way of disputation, against 
which he was sufficiently armed ; but by flattery, in- 
sinuation and address ; by representing the dignities 
to which his character still entitled him, if he would 
merit them by a recantation ; by giving him hopes of 
long enjoying those powerful friends, whom his bene- 
ficent disposition had attached to him, during the 
course of his prosperity. Overcome by the fond love 



104 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

of life; terrified by the prospect of these tortures 
which awaited him ; he allowed, in an unguarded 
hour, the sentiments of nature to prevail over his re- 
solution, and agreed to subscribe the doctrines of the 
papel supremacy, and of the real presence. The 
court, equally perfidious and cruel, was determined 
that this recantation should avail him nothing; and 
sent orders that he should be required to acknowledge 
his errors in church before the whole people ; and that 
he should thence be immediately carried to execution. 

Cranmer, whether he had received a secret inti- 
mation of their design, or had repented of his weak- 
ness, surprised the audience by a contrary decla- 
ration. He said, that he was well apprised of the obedi- 
ence which he owed to his sovereign and the laws ; but 
that this duty extended no farther than to submit pati- 
ently to their commands ; and to bear, without resistance, 
whatever hardships they should impose upon him : that 
a superior duty, the duty which he owed to his Maker, 
obliged him to speak truth on all occasions; and not 
to relinquish, by a base denial, the holy doctrine which 
the Supreme Being had revealed to mankind: that 
there was one miscarriage in his life, of which, above 
all others, he severely repented ; the insincere decla- 
ration of faith to which he had the weakness to con- 
sent, and which the fear of death alone had extorted 
from him : that he took this opportunity of atoning for 
his error, by a sincere and open recantation ; and was 
willing to seal, with his blood, that doctrine which he 
firmly ^ljeved to be communicated from heaven: 
andthaf r ;aji his hand had erred, by betraying his heart, 
it shouifHggt be punished, by a severe but just doom' 
and should first pay the forfeit of its offe nces. 

He was then led to the stake, amidst the insults of his 

- 



Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. 105 

enemies : and having now summoned up all the force of 
his mind, lie bore their scorn, as well as the torture of 
his punishment, with singular fortitude. He stretched 
out his hand, and, without betraying, either by his 
countenance or motions, the least sign of weakness, or 
even of feeling, he held it in the flames till it was en- 
tirely consumed. His thoughts seemed wholly occu- 
pied with reflections on his former fault, and he called 
aloud several times, a This hand has offended." Sa- 
tisfied with that atonement, he then discovered a sere- 
nity in his countenance; and when the fire attacked 
his body, he seemed to be quite insensible of his out- 
ward sufferings, and, by the force of hope and resolu- 
tion, to have collected his mind, altogether within it- 
self, and to repel the fury of the flames. — He was un- 
doubtedly a man of merit; possessed of learning and 
capacity, and adorned with candour, sincerity, and be- 
neficence, and all those virtues which were fitted to 
render him useful and amiable in society. 

HUME. 
SECTION III. 

Christianity furnishes the best consolation under the 

evils of life. 

It is of great importance to contemplate the Chris- 
tian religion in the light of consolation ; as bringing aid 
and relief to us amidst the distresses of life. Here our 
religion incontestably triumphs ; and its happy effects, 
in this respect, furnish a strong argument to every bene- 
volent mind, for wishing them to be farther diffused 
throughout the world. For without the belief and hope 
afforded by Divine Revelation, the circumstances of man 



106 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

are extremely forlorn. He finds him self placed here as a 
stranger in a vast universe, where the powers and ope- 
rations of nature are very imperfectly known; where 
both the beginnings and the issues of things are in- 
volved in mysterious darkness ; where he is unable to 
discover, with any certainty, whence he sprang, or for 
what purpose he was brought into this state of existence ; 
whether he is subjected to the government of a mild, 
or of a wrathful ruler; what construction he is to put 
on many of the dispensations of his providence ; arid 
what his fate is to be when he departs hence. What 
a disconsolate situation, to a serious inquiring mind! 
The greater degree of virtue it possesses, the more 
its sensibility is likely to be oppressed by this burden 
of labouring' thought. Even though it were in one's 
power to banish all uneasy thought, and to fill up the 
hours of life with perpetual amusement, life so filled 
up would, upon reflection, appear poor and trivial. 
But these are far from being the terms upon which 
man is brought into this world. He is conscious that 
his being is frail and feeble ; he sees himself beset with 
various dangers ; and is exposed to many a melan- 
choly apprehension, from the evils which he may have 
to encounter, before he arrives at the close of life. In 
this distressed condition, to reveal to him such disco- 
veries of the Supreme Being as the Christian religion 
affords, is to reveal to him a father and a friend ; is 
to let in a ray of the most cheering light upon the 
darkness of the human state. He who was before a 
destitute orphan, wandering in the inhospitable desert, 
has now gained a shelter from the bitter and inclement 
blast. He now knows to whom to pray, and in whom 
to trust; where to unbosom his sorrows; and from 
what hand to look for relief. 



Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. 107 

It is certain, that when the heart bleeds from some 
wound of recent misfortune, nothing is of equal efficacy 
with religious comfort. It is of power to enlighten 
the darkest hour, and to assuage the severest woe, by 
the belief of Divine favour, and the prospect of a blessed 
immortality. In such hopes, the mind expatiates with 
joy; and, when bereaved of its earthly friends, solaces 
itself with the thoughts of one Friend, who will never 
forsake it. Refined reasonings concerning the nature 
of the human condition, and the improvement which 
philosophy teaches us to make of every event, may 
entertain the mind when it is at ease: may perhaps 
contribute to sooth it, when slightly touched with sor- 
row : but when it is torn with any sore distress, they 
are cold and feeble, compared with a direct promise 
from the Father of mercies. This is " an anchor to 
the soul both sure aud steadfast." This has given con- 
solation and refuge to many a virtuous heart, at a time 
when the most cogent reasonings would have proved 
utterly unavailing. 

Upon the approach of death, when, if a man thinks 
at all, his anxiety about his future interests must na- 
turally increase, the power of religious consolation is 
sensibly felt. Then appears, in the most striking light, 
the high value of the discoveries made by the gospel ; 
not only life and immortality revealed, but a Mediator 
with God discovered; mercy proclaimed, through 
him, to the frailties of the penitent and the humble; 
and his presence promised to be with them when they 
are passing through "the valley of the shadow of 
death," in order to bring them safe into unseen habi- 
tations of rest and joy. Here is ground for their leaving 
the world with comfort and peace. But in this severe 
and trying period, this labouring hour of nature, how 



108 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

shall the unhappy man support himself, who knows 
not, or believes not, the discoveries of religion? Se- 
cretly conscious to himself that he has not acted his 
part as he ought to have done, the sins of his past life 
arise before him in sad remembrance. He wishes to 
exist after death, and yet dreads that existence. The 
Governor of the world is unknown. He cannot tell 
whether every endeavour to obtain his mercy may not 
be in vain. All is awful obscurity around him; and, 
in the midst of endless doubts and perplexities, the 
trembling, reluctant soul is forced away from the body. 
As the misfortunes of life must, to such a man, have 
been most oppressive, so its end is bitter. His sun sets 
in a dark cloud ; and the night of death closes over 
his head, full of misery. blair. 

section IV. 

Benefits to be derived from scenes of distress. 

Some periods of sadness have, in our present situa- 
tion, a just and natural place ; and they are requisite to 
the true enjoyment of pleasure : but I shall at present 
decline considering the subject in this view; and con- 
fine myself to point out the direct effects of a proper 
attention to the distresses of life, upon our moral and 
religious character. 

In the firs: place, the house of mourning is calculated 
to give a proper check to our natural thoughtlessness 
and levity. The indolence of mankind, and their love 
of pleasure, spread, through all characters and ranks, 
some degree of aversion to what is grave and serious. 
The)' grasp at any object, either of business or amuse- 
ment, which makes ftie present moment pass smoothly 
away; which carries their thoughts abroad, and saves 



Chap, 5. Pathetic Pieces. 109 

them from the trouble of reflecting on themselves. 
With too many, this passes into a habit of eanstanl dis- 
sipation. If their fortune and rank allow them to in- 
dulge their inclinations, they devote themselves to the 
pursuit of amusement through all its different forms, 
The skilful arrangement of its successive scenes, and 
the preparatory study for shining in each, are the only 
exertions in which their understanding is employed. 
Such a mode of life may keep alive, for a while, a fri- 
volous vivacity : it may improve men in some of those 
exterior accomplishments, which sparkle in the eyes of 
the giddy and the vain \ but it must sink them in the 
esteem of all the w T ise. It renders them strangers to 
themselves ; and useless, if not pernicious, to the world. 
They lose every manly principle. Their minds be- 
come relaxed and effeminate. All that is great or re- 
spectable m the human character is buried under a mass 
of trifles and follies. 

If some measures ought to be taken for rescuing the 
mind from this disgraceful levity ; if some principles 
must be acquired, w r hich may give more dignity and 
steadiness to conduct ; where are these to be looked 
for? Not surely in the house of feasting, where every 
object flatters the senses, and strengthens the seductions 
to which we are already prone j where the spirit of 
dissipation circulates from heart to heart ; and the chil- 
dren of folly mutually admire and are admired. It is 
in the sober and serious house of mourning that the 
tide of vanity is made to turn, and a new direction 
given to the current of thought. When some affecting 
incident presents a strong discovery of the deceitfulness 
of all worldly joy, and rouses our sensibility to human 
woe ; when we behold those with whom we had lately 
mingled in the house of feasting, sunk by some of the 

K 



110 ,*? Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

sudden vicissitudes of life into the vale of misery; or 
w.hen, in sad silence, we stand by the friend whom we 
had loved as our own sou"!, stretched on the bed of 
death; then is the season when the world begins to 
appear in a new light; when the heart opens to virtu- 
ous sentiments, and is led into that train of reflection 
which ought to direct life. He who before knew not 
what it was to commune with his heart on any serious 
subject, now puts the question to himself, for what 
purpose he was sent forth into this mortal, transitory 
state ; what his fate is likely to be when it concludes ; 
and what judgment he ought to form of those pleasures 
which amuse for a little, but which, he now sees, 
cannot save the heart from anguish in the evil day. 
Touched by the hand of thoughtful melancholy, that 
airy edifice of bliss, which fancy had raised up for him, 
vanishes away. He beholds, in the place of it, the 
lonely and barren desert, in which, surrounded with 
many a disagreeable object, he is left musing upon 
himself. The time which he has mispent, and the 
faculties which he has misemployed, his foolish levity 
and his criminal pursuits, all rise in painful prospect be- 
fore him. That unknown state of existence into which, 
race after race, the children of men pass, strikes his 
mind with solemn awe, — Is there no course by which 
he can retrieve his past errors? Is there no superior 
power to which he can look up for aid? Is there no 
plan of conduct which, if it exempt him not from sor- 
row, can at least procure him consolation amidst the 
distressful exigencies of life? — Such meditations as these, 
suggested by the house of mourning, frequently produce 
a change in the whole character. They revive those 
sparks of goodness which were nearly extinguished in 
the dissipated mind ; and give rise to principles of con- 



Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces* HI 

duct more rational in themselves, and more suitable to 
the human state. , 

In the next place, impressions of this nature not only- 
produce moral seriousness, but awaken sentiments of 
piety, and bring men into the sanctuary of religion. One 
might, indeed, imagine that the blessings of a prosper- 
ous condition would prove the most natural incitements 
to devotion ; and that when men were happy in them- 
selves, and saw nothing but happiness around them, 
they could not fail gratefully to acknowledge that God 
who " giveth them all things richly to enjoy." Yet 
such is their corruption, that they are never more ready- 
to forget their benefactor, than when loaded with his 
benefits. The giver is concealed from their careless 
and inattentive view, by the cloud of his own gifts. 
When their life continues to flow in one smooth cur- 
rent, unruffled by any griefs ; when they neither re- 
ceive in their own circumstances, nor allow themselves 
to receive from the circumstances of others, anv admo- 
nitions of human instability, they not only become re- 
gardless of Providence, but are in hazard of contem- 
ning it. Glorying in their strength, and lifted up by 
the pride of life into supposed independence, that im- 
pious sentiment, if not uttered by the mouth, yet too 
often lurks in the hearts of many during their flourish- 
ing periods, " What is the Almighty that we should 
serve him, and what profit should we have if we pray 
unto him?" 

If such be the tendency of the house of feasting, how 
necessary is it that, by some change in their situation, 
men should be obliged to enter into the house of 
mourning, in order to recover a proper sense of their 
dependent state ! It is there, when forsaken by the 
gaities of the world, and left alone with the Almighty, 



1^2 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

that we are made to perceive how awful his govern- 
ment is : how easily human greatness bends before 
him ; and how quickly all our designs and measures, 
at his interposal, vanish into nothing. There, when 
the countenance is sad, and the affections are softened 
by grief; when we sit apart, involved in serious thought, 
looking down as from some eminence on those dark 
clouds that hang over the life of man, the arrogance of 
prosperity is humbled, and the heart melts under the 
impressions of religion. Formerly we were taught, but 
now we see, we feel, how much we stand in need of 
an Almighty Protector, amidst the changes of this vain 
world. Our soul cleaves to him who " despises not, 
nor abhors the affliction of the afflicted." Prayer flows 
forth of its own accord from the relenting heart, that 
he may be our God, and the God of our friends in dis- 
tress ; that he may never forsake us while we are so- 
journing in this land of pilgrimage ; may strengthen us 
under its calamities, and bring us hereafter to those 
habitations of rest, where we, and they whom we love, 
may be delivered from the trials which all are now 
doomed to endure. The discoveries of his mercy, 
which he has made in the gospel of Christ, are viewed 
with joy, as so many rays of light sent down from above, 
to dispel, in some degree, the surrounding gloom. A 
Mediator and Intercessor with the Sovereign of the 
universe, appear comfortable names ; and the resur- 
rection of the just becomes the powerful cordial of 
grief. In such moments as these, which we may justly 
call happy moments, the soul participates of all the 
pleasures of devotion. It feels the power of religion to 
support and relieve. It -is softened, without being 
broken. It is full, and it pours itself forth ; pours itself 
forth, if we may be allowed to use the expression, into 
the bosom of its merciful Creator. 



Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. 113 

Enough has been said to show, that, on various oc- 
casions, " sorrow may be better than laughter? 22 ^ - 
Wouldst thou acquire the habit of recollection, and fix 
the principles of thy conduct; wouldst thou be led up 
to thy Creator and Redeemer, and be formed to sen- 
timents of piety and devotion; wouldst thou be ac- 
quainted with those mild and tender affections which 
delight the compassionate and humane ; wouldst thou 
have the power of sensual appetites tamed and cor- 
rected, and thy soul raised above the ignoble love of 
life, and fear of death? go, my brother, go — not to 
scenes of pleasure and riot, not to the house of feasting 
and mirth — but to the silent house of mourning; and 
adventure to dwell for a while among objects that will 
soften thy heart. Contemplate the lifeless remains of 
what once was fair and flourishing. Bring home to 
thyself the vicissitudes of life. Recall the remembrance 
of the friend, the parent, or the child, whom thou ten- 
derly lovedst. Look back on the days of former years ; 
and think on the companions of thy youth, who now 
sleep in the dust. Let the vanity, the mutability, and 
the sorrows of the human state, rise in full prospect 
before thee ; and though thy " countenance may be 
made sad, thy heart shall be made better." This sad- 
ness, though for the present it dejects, yet shall in the 
end fortify thy spirit ; inspiring thee with such senti- 
ments, and prompting such resolutions as shall enable 
thee to enjoy, with more real advantage, the rest of life. 
Dispositions of this nature form one part of the cha= 
racter of those mourners whom our Saviour hath pro- 
nounced blessed ; and of those to whom it is promised 
that " sowing in tears, they shall reap in joy." A great 
difference there is between being serious and melaa- 

k 2 



114 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

choly; and a melancholy too there is of that kind 
which deserves to be sometimes indulged. 

Religion hath, on the whole, provided for every 
good man abundant materials of consolation and relief. 
How dark soever the present face of nature may ap- 
pear, it dispels the darkness, when it brings into view 
the entire system of things, and extends our survey to 
the whole kingdom of God. It represents what we 
now behold as only a part, and a small part, of the ge- 
neral order. It assures us, that though here, for wise 
ends, misery and sorrow are permitted to have place, 
these temporary evils shall, in the end, advance the 
happiness of all who love God, and are faithful to their 
duty. It shows them this mixed and confused scene 
vanishing by degrees away, and preparing the intro- 
duction of that state, where the house of mourning shall 
be shut up for ever; where no tears are seen, and no 
groans heard ; where no hopes are" frustrated, and no 
virtuous connexions dissolved; but where, under the 
light of the Divine countenance, goodness shall flourish 
in perpetual felicity. Thus, though religion may oc- 
casionally chasten our mirth with sadness of counte- 
nance, yet under that sadness it allows not the heart of 
good men to sink. It calls upon them to rejoice 
u because the Lord reigneth who is their Rock, and 
the most high God who is their Redeemer." Reason 
likewise joins her voice with that of religion; for- 
bidding us to make peevish and unreasonable complaints 
of human life, or injuriously to ascribe to it more evil 
than it contains. Mixed as the present state is, she 
pronounces, that generally, if not always, there is 
more happiness than misery, more pleasure than pain, 
in the condition of man. blair. 



( H5 ) 

CHAPTER VI. 
DIALOGUES. 



SECTION I. 
Theron AND JfsPASlO. 

Beauty and utility combined in the productions of nature, 

Theron and Aspasio took a morning walk into the 
fields ; their spirits cheered, and their imaginations 
lively ; gratitude glowing in their hearts, and the whole 
creation smiling around them. 

After sufficient exercise, they seated themselves on 
a mossy hillock, which offered its couch. The rising 
sun had visited the spot, to dry up the dews and exhale 
the damps, that might endanger health ; to open the 
violets, and to expand the primroses, that decked the 
green. The whole shade of the wood was collected 
behind them: and a beautiful, extensive, diversified 
landscape spread itself before them. 

Theron, according to his usual manner, made many- 
improving remarks on the prospect, and its furniture. 
He traced the footsteps of an All-comprehending con- 
trivance, and pointed out the strokes of inimitable skill. 
He observed the grand exertions of power, and the 
rich exuberance of goodness, most signally, most charm- 
ingly conspicuous through the whole. — Upon one cir- 
cumstance he enlarged, with particular satisfaction. 



qt 



116 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

THERON. 

See! Aspasio, how all is calculated to administer 
the highest delight to mankind. Those trees and 
hedges, which skirt the extremities of the landscape, 
stealing away from their real bulk, and lessening by- 
gentle diminutions, appear like elegant pictures in 
miniature. Those which occupy the nearer situations, 
are a set of noble images, swelling upon the eye, in 
full proportion, and in a variety of graceful attitudes ; 
both of them ornamenting the several apartments of 
our common abode, with a mixture of delicacy and 
grandeur. 

The blossoms that array the branches, the flowers 
that embroider the mead, address and entertain our 
eyes with every charm of beauty : whereas, to other 
creatures, they are destitute of all those attractions, 
which result from a combination of the loveliest co- 
lours, and the most alluring forms. Yonder streams, 
that glide, with smooth serenity, along the valleys, 
glittering to the distant view, like sheets of polished 
crystal, or soothing the attentive ear, with the softness 
of aquatic murmurs, are not less exhilarating to the 
fancy, than refreshing to the soil through which they 
pass. The huge, enormous mountain; the steep and 
dizzy precipice ; the pendent horrors of the craggy 
promontory; wild and awful as they are, furnish an 
agreeable entertainment to the human mind ; and 
please, even while they amaze : whereas, the beasts 
take no other notice of those majestic deformities, than 
to avoid the dangers they threaten. 

aspasio. 

How wonderfully do such considerations exalt our 
idea of the Creator's goodness, his very distinguishing 



Chap. 6. Dialogues. 117 

• 

goodness to mankind! And should they not propor- 
tionally endear that eternal Benefactor to our hearts? 
His e>^>bountiful hand has, with profuse liberality, 
scattered rjk*s^ings among all the ranks of animated 
existence. But to. us he exercises a beneficence of a 
very superior kind. We are treated with peculiar at* 
tention. We are admitted to scenes of delight, which 
none but ourselves are capable of relishing. 

thero'n. 

Another remark, though very obvious*, is equally im- 
portant. The destination of all these external things 
is no less advantageous, than theirjformation is beau- 
tiful. The bloom, which engages the eye with its de- 
licate hues, is cherishing the embryo fruit ; and form- 
ing within its silken folds, the rudiments of a future 
dessert. — Those streams, which shine from afar, like 
fluid silver, are much more valuable in their produc- 
tions, and beneficial in their services, than they are 
beautiful in their appearance^. They distribute, as 
they roll along their winding banks, cleanliness to our 
houses, and fruitfulness to our lands. They nourish, 
and at their own expense, a never-failing supply of the 
finest fish. They visit our cities,* and attend our 
wharfs, as so many public vehicles, ready to set out at 
all hours. 

Those sheep, which give their udders to be drained 
by the busy frisking lambs, are fattening their flesh for 
our support ; and while they fill their own fleeces, are 
providing for our comfortable clothing. Yonder kitifc, 
some of which are browsing upon the' tender herb, 
others, satiated with pasturage, and ruminating under 
the shady covert, though conscious of no such design, 
are concocting, for our use, one of the , softest, purest 3 



118 Sequel to the English Reader. Parti* 

most salutary of liquors. The bees that fly humming 
about cur seat, and pursue their work on the fragrant 
blossoms, are collecting balm and sweetness, to com- 
pose the richest of syrups ; which, through the produce 
of their toil, is intended for our good. Nature and 
her whole family, are our obsequious servants, our 
ever-active labourers. They bring the fruits of their 
united industry, and pour them into our lap, or deposit 
them in our store-rooms. 

AsPASIO. 

Who can ever sufficiently admire this immense be- 
nignity ? — The Supreme Disposer of events has com- 
manded delight and profit to walk hand in hand, 
through his ample creation^ making all things so per- 
fectly pleasing, as if beauty were their only end ; yet all 
things so eminently serviceable, as if usefulness had 
been their sole design. — And, as a most winning invi- 
tation to our gratitude, he has rendered man the centre, 
in which all the emanations of his beneficence, diffused 
through this terrestrial system, finally terminate. 

hervey. 

section ii. 

Cadmus and Hercules. 
Importance of Literature. 

HERCULES. 

Do you pretend to sit as high on Olympus as Her- 
cules? Did you kill the Nemean lion, the Erymanthian 
boar, the Lernean serpent, and Stymphalian birds t 
Did you destroy tyrants and robbers? you value your- 



Chap, 6. Dialogues. 119 

self greatly on subduing one serpent : I did as much as 
that while I lay in my cradle. 

CADMUS. 

It is not on account of the serpent that I boast myself 
a greater benefactor to Greece than you. Actions 
should be valued by their utility, rather than their splen- 
dour. I taught Greece the art of writing, to which 
laws owe their precision and permanency. You subdu- 
ed monsters ; I civilized men. It is from untamed pas- 
sions not from wild beasts, that the greatest evils arise 
to human society. By wisdom, by art, by the united 
strength of civil community, men have been enabled to 
subdue the whole race of lions, bears, and serpents : and, 
what is more, to bind by laws and wholesome regula- 
tions, the ferocious violence and dangerous treachery 
of the human disposition. Had lions been destroyed, 
only in single combat, men had had but a bad time of 
it; and what but laws could awe the men who killed 
the lions ? The genuine glory, the proper distinction of 
the rational species, arise from the perfection of the 
mental powers. Courage is apt to be fierce, and 
strength is often exerted in acts of oppression ; but 
wisdom is the associate of justice. It assists her to form 
equal laws, to pursue right measures, to correct power, 
protect weakness, and to unite individuals in a common 
interest and general welfare. Heroes may kill tyrants ; 
but it is wisdom and laws that prevent tyranny and op- 
pression. The operations of policy far^urpass the la- 
bours of Hercules, preventing many evils which valour 
and might cannot even redress. You heroes regard 
nothing but glory; and scarcely consider whether the 
conquests which raise your fame, are really beneficial 
to your country. Unhappy are the people who are 






120 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

governed by valour not directed by prudence, and not 
mitigated by the gentle arts ! 

HERCULES. 

I do not expect to find an admirer of my strenuous 
life, in the man who taught his countrymen to sit still 
and read ; and to lose the hours of youth and action in 
idle speculation and the sport of words. 

CADMUS 

An ambition to have a place in the registers of fame, 
is the Eurystheus which imposes heroic labours on 
mankind. The muses incite to action, as well as en- 
tertain the hours of repose ; and I think you should 
honour them for presenting to heroes so noble a re- 
creation, as may prevent their taking up the distaff, 
when they lay down the club. 

HERCULES. 

Wits as well as heroes can take up the distaff. 
What think you of their thin-spun systems of philo- 
sophy, or lascivious poems, or Milesian fables ? Nay, 
what is still worse, are there not panegyrics on tyrants, 
and books that blaspheme the gods, and perplex the 
natural sense of right and wrong? I believe if Eu- 
rystheus were to set me to work again, he would find 
me a worse task than any he imposed ; he would make 
me read over a great library ; and I would serve it 
as I did the hydra, I would burn as I went on, that 
one chimera might not rise from another, to plague 
mankind. I should have valued myself more on clear- 
ing the library, than on cleansing the augean stables. 

CADMUS., 

It is in those libraries only that the memory of your 
labours exists. The heroes of Marathon, the patriots 



Chap, 6. dialogues. 121 

of Thermopylae owe their fame to me. All the wise 
institutions of lawgivers, and all the doctrines of sages, 
had perished in the ear, like a dream related, if letters 
had not preserved them. O Hercules ! it is not for 
the man who preferred virtue to pleasure, to be an 
enemy to the muses. Let Sardanapalus and the silken 
sons of luxury, who have wasted life in inglorious ease, 
despise the records of action, which bear no honour- 
able testimony to their lives : but true merit, heroic 
virtue, should respect the sacred source • of lasting 
honour. 



'V* HERCULES. 



Indeed, if writers employed themselves only in re- 
cording the acts of great men, much might be said in 
their favour. But why do they trouble people with 
their meditations? Can it be of any consequence to the 
world what an idle man has been thinking? 



CADMUS. 



Yes it may. The most important and extensive ad- 
vantages mankind enjoy, are greatly owing to men 
who have never quitted their closets. To them man- 
kind are obliged for the facility and security of navi- 
gation. The invention of the compass has opesned to 
them new worlds. The knowledge of *he mechanical 
powers has enabled them to construct such wonderful 
machines, as perform what the united labour of mil- 
lions, by the severest drudgery, could not accomplish. 
Agriculture too, the most useful of arts, has received 
its share of improvement from the same source. Poetry 
likewise is of excellent use, to enable the memory to 
retain with more ease, and to imprint with more energy 
upon the heart, precepts and examples of virtue. 



L 



122 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

From the little root of a few letters, science has spread 
its branches over all nature, and raised its head to the 
Heavens. Some philosophers have entered so far into 
the counsels of Divine Wisdom, as to explain much 
of the great operations of nature. The dimensions and 
^ distances of the planets, the causes of their revolutions, 
the path of comets, and the ebbing and flowing of 
tides, are understood and explained. Can any thing 
raise the glory of the human species more, than to see 
a little creature, inhabiting a small spot, amidst innu- 
merable worlds, taking a survey of the universe, com- 
prehending its arrangement, and entering into the 
scheme of that wonderful connexion and correspondence 
of things so remote, and which it seems a great exertion 
of Omnipotence to have established? What a volume 
of wisdom, what a noble theology do those discoveries 
open to us ! While some superior geniuses have soared 
to these sublime subjects, other sagacious and diligent 
minds have been inquiring into the most minute works 
of the Infinite Artificer : the same care, the same pro- 
vidence is exerted through the whole ; and we should 
learn frotn it, that to true wisdom, utility and fitness 
appear perfection, and whatever is beneficial is noble. 

HERCULES. 

I approve of science as far as it is assistant to action. 
I like the improvement of navigation, and the dis- 
covery of the greater part of the globe, because it 
opens a wider field for the master spirits of the world 
to bustle in. 

CADMUS. 

There spoke the soul of Hercules. But if learned 
men are to be esteemed for the assistance they give to 



Chap. 6. Dialogues, 123 

active minds in their schemes, they are not less to be 
valued for their endeavours to give them a right di- 
rection, and moderate their too great ardour. The 
study of history will teach the legislator by what 
means states have become powerful ; and in the pri- 
vate citizen, they will inculcate the love of liberty 
and order. The writings of sages point out a private 
path of virtue ; and show that the best empire is self- 
government, and that subduing our passions is the 
noblest of conquests. 

HERCULES. 

The true spirit of heroism acts by a generous im- 
pulse, and wants neither the experience of history, nor 
the doctrines of philosophers to direct it. But do not 
arts and sciences render men effeminate, luxurious, and 
inactive ? and can you deny that wit and learning ar« 
often made subservient to very bad purposes ? 

CADMUS. 

I will own that there are some natures so happily 
formed, they scarcely want the assistance of a master, 
and the rules of art, to give them force or grace in 
every thing they do. But these favoured geniuses are 
few. As learning flourishes only where ease, plenty, 
and mild government subsist; in so rich a soil, and 
under so soft a climate, the weeds of luxury will spring 
up among the flowers of art : but the spontaneous 
weeds would grow more rank, if they were allowed 
the undisturbed possession of the field. Letters keep a 
frugal temperate nation from growing ferocious, a rich 
one, from becoming entirely sensual and debauched. 
Every gift of Heaven is sometimes abused ; but good 
sense and fine talents, by a natural law, gravitate 



124 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

towards virtue. Accidents may drive them out of their 
proper direction ; but such accidents are an alarming 
omen, and of dire portent to the times. For if virtue 
cannot keep to her allegiance those men, who in their 
hearts confess her divine right, and know the value of 
her laws, on whose fidelity and obedience can she 
depend? May such geniuses never descend to flatter 
vice, encourage folly, or propagate irreligion; but 
exert all their powers in the service of virtue, and 
celebrate the noble choice of those, who, like Hercules, 
, preferred her to pleasure ? 

LORD LYTTLETON. 

section iii. . 

Marcus jZurelius Philosophus and Serfius Tullivs. 

An absolute and a limited monarchy compared, 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Yes, Marcus, though I own you to have been the 
first of mankind, in virtue and goodness ; though, while 
you governed, philosophy sat on the throne, and dif- 
fused the benign influences of her administration over 
the whole Roman empire, yet, as a king, I might, 
perhaps, pretend to a merit even superior to yours. 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

That philosophy you ascribe to me has taught me to 
feel my own defects, and to venerate the virtues of 
other men. Tell me, therefore, in what consisted the 
superiority of your merit, as a king. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

It consisted in this, that I gave my people free» 
dom. I diminished, I limited the kingly power, when 



At*. 



Chap, 6. Dialogues. 125 

it was placed in my hands. I need not tell you, that 
the plan of government instituted by me, was adopted 
by the Romans, when they had driven out Tarquin, 
the destroyer of their liberty ; and gave its form to that 
republic, composed of a due mixture of the regal, 
aristocratical and democratical powers, the strength 
and wisdom of which subdued the world. Thus all the 
glory of that great people, who for many ages ex- 
celled the rest of mankind, in the arts of policy, be- 
longs originally to me. 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

There is much truth in what you say. But would 
not the Romans have done better, if, after the expul- 
sion of Tarquin, they had vested the regal power in 
a limited monarch, instead of placing it in two annual 
elective, magistrates, with the title of consuls? This 
was a great deviation from your plan of government, 
and I think an unwise one. For a divided royalty 
is a solecism, and absurdity in politics. Nor was the 
regal power, committed to the administration of con- 
suls, continued in their hands long enough, to enable 
them to finish any act of great moment. From hence 
arose a necessity of prolonging their commands beyond 
the legal term ; of shortening the interval prescribed 
by the laws between the elections to those offices , and 
of granting extraordinary commissions and powers, by 
all which the republic was in the end destroyed. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

The revolution which ensued upon the death of 
Lucretia was made with so much anger, that it is no 
wonder the Romans abolished in their fury the name 
of king, and desired to weaken a power, the exercise 

m n 



126* Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

of which had been so grievous ; though the doing of 
this was attended with all the inconveniencies you have 
justly observed. But if anger acted too violently in 
reforming abuses, philosophy might have wisely cor- 
rected that error. Marcus Aurelius might have new- 
modelled the constitution of Rome. He might have 
made it a limited monarchy, leaving to the em- 
perors all the power that was necessary to govern a 
wide extended empire, and to the senate and people 
all the liberty that could be consistent with order and 
obedience to government; a liberty purged of faction, 
and guarded against anarchy. 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

I should have been happy indeed, if it had been in 
my power to do such good to my country. But Heaven 
will not force its blessings on men, who by their vices 
are become incapacle of receiving them. Liberty, like 
power, is only good for those who possess it, when il is 
under the constant direction of virtue. No laws can 
have force enough to hinder it from degenerating into 
faction and anarchy, where the morals of a nation are 
depraved ; and continued habits of vice will eradicate 
the very love of it out of the hearts of a people. A 
Marcus Brutus, in my time, could not have drawn to 
his standard a single legion of Romans. But further, 
it is certain that the spirit of liberty is absolutely in- 
compatible with the spirit of conquest. To keep 
great conquered nations in subjection and obedience, 
great standing armies are necessary. The generals of 
those armies will not long remain subjects: and who- 
ever acquires c^minion by the sword, must rule by the 
sword. If he does not destroy liberty, liberty will 
destroy him. 




! 



Chap, 6. dialogues. 127 



SERVIUS TU.vLIUS. 



Do you then justify Augustus for the change he made 
in the Roman government? 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

I do not ; for Augustus had no lawful authority t© 
make that change. His power was usurpation and 
breach of trust. But the government which he seized 
with a violent hand, came to me by a lawful and esta- 
blished rule of succession. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Can any length of establishment make despotism 
lawful? Is not liberty an inherent, inalienable right of 
mankind ? 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

They have an inherent right to be governed by 
laws, not by arbitrary will. But forms of government 
may, and must be occasionally changed, with the con- 
sent of the people. When I reigned over them the 
Romans were governed by laws. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Yes, because your moderation, and the precepts of 
that philosophy in which your youth had been tutored, 
inclined you to make the laws the rule of your govern- 
ment, and the bounds of your power. But, if you had 
desired to govern otherwise, had they power to' re- 
strain you? 

MARCUS AURELIUS. '****% 

They had not : the Imperial authority in my time 
had no limitations. 



12 8 W Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Rome therefore was in reality as much enslaved un- 
der you, as under your son ; and you left him the power 
of tyrannizing over it by hereditary right. 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

I did ; — and the conclusion of that tyranny was his 
murder. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Unhappy father! unhappy king! what a detestable 
thing is absolute monarchy, when even the virtues of 
Marcus Aurelius could not hinder it from being de- 
structive to his family, and pernicious to his country, 
any longer than the period of his own life ! But how 
happy is that kingdom, in which a limited monarch 
presides over a state so justly poised,* that it guards 
itself from such evils, and has no need to take refuge in 
arbitrary power against the dangers of anarchy ; which 
is almost as bad a resource, as it would be for a ship to 
run itself on a rock, in order to escape from the agita- 
tion of a tempest. lord lyttleton. 



* The young reader will here be naturally reminded of the ex- 
cellence of the British Constitution ; a fabric which has stood 
the test of ages, and attracted the admiration of the world. It 
combines the advantages of the three great forms of government, 
without their inconveniences: it preserves a happy balance amongst 
them : and it contains within itself the power of recurring to first 
principles, and of rectifying all the disorders of time. May Divine 
Providence perpetuate, this invaluable constitution; and excite in 
the hearts of Britons', grateful acknowledgments for this blessing, 
and for many others by which they are eminently distinguished ! 



Chap. 6. Dialogues. 129 

SECTION IV. 

Theron and Asp as 10. 
On the excellence of the Holy Scriptures. 

THERON. 

I fear my friend suspects me to be somewhat wa- 
vering, or defective, in veneration for the Scriptures. 

aspasio. 

No, Theron, I have a better opinion of your taste 
and discernment, than to harbour any such suspicion, 

THERON. 

The Scriptures are certainly an inexhaustible fund 
of materials, for the most delightful and ennobling dis- 
course and meditation. When we consider the Au- 
thor of those sacred books, that they came originally 
from Heaven, were dictated by Divine Wisdom, have 
the same consummate excellence as the works of crea- 
tion; it is really surprising, that we are not often 
searching, by study, by meditation, or converse, into 
one or other of those important volumes. 

ASPASIO. 

I admire, I must confess, the very language and 
composition of the Bible. Would you see history in 
all h||L simplicity, and all her force ; most beautifully 
eas^^^PTrresistibly striking? — See her, or rather feel 
her energy, touching the nicest movements of the soul, 
and triumphing over our passions, in the inimitable 
narrative of Joseph's life. — The representation of Esau's 
bitter distress ; the conversation pieces of Jonathan and 
Ihis gallant friend; the memorable journal of the dis- 



1,30 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

ciples going to Emmaus ; are finished models of the 
impassioned and affecting. — Here is nothing studied ; 
here are no flights of fancy; no embellishments of 
oratory. If we sometimes choose a plaintive strain, 
such as softens the mind, and sooths an agreeable me- 
lancholy, are any of the classic writers superior, in the 
eloquence of mourning, to David's pathetic elegy on 
his beloved Jonathan ; to his most passionate and incon- 
solable moan over the lovely but unhappy Absalom ; 
or to that melodious woe, which warbles and bleeds, 
in every line of Jeremiah's Lamentations? 

Are we admirers of antiquity? — Here we are led 
back, beyond the universal deluge, and far beyond the 
date of any other annals.' — We are introduced to the 
earliest inhabitants of the earth. We take a view of 
mankind in their undisguised primitive plainness, when 
the days of their life were but little short of a thousand 
years. We are brought acquainted with the origin of 
nations ; with the creation of the world ; and with the 
birth of time itself. 

Are we delighted with vast achievements? — Where 
is any thing comparable to the miracles in Egypt, and 
the wonders in the field of Zoan ? to the memoirs of 
the Israelites passing through the depths of the sea; 
sojourning amidst the inhospitable deserts ; and con- 
quering the kingdom of Canaan ? — Here we behold I 
the fundamental laws of the universe, sometimes sus- 1 
pended, sometimes reversed; and not only the current 
of Jordan, but the course of nature controlled. 

If we want maxims of wisdom, or have a taste fori 
the laconic style — how copiously may our wants be 
supplied, and how delicately our taste gratified ! espe- 
cially in the book of Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and some 
of the minor prophets. — Here are the most sage lessons! 



Chap, 6. Dialogues, 1 



of instruction, adapted to every circumstance of life ; 
formed upon the experience of all preceding ages ; and 
perfected by the unerring Spirit of inspiration. These 
are delivered with such remarkable conciseness, that 
one might venture to say, every word is a sentence: 
at least, every sentence may be called an apophtheghm, 
sparkling with brightness of thought, or weighty with 
solidity -of sense. The whole, like a profusion of 
pearls^ containing, in a very small compass, a value 
almost immense; all heaped up (as an ingenious writer 
observes) with a confused magnificence, above the 
little niceties of order. 

If we look for strength of reasoning, and warmth of 
exhortation, or the manly boldness of impartial reproof; 
let us have recourse to the acts of the apostles, and to 
the epistles of Paul. These are a specimen, or rather 
these are the standard, of them all. 

Another recommendation of the Scriptures, is, that 
they afford the most awful and most amiable manifest- 
ations of the Deity. His glory shines, and his goodness 
smiles, in those Divine pages, with unparalleled lustre. 
Here we have a satisfactory explanation of our own 
state. The origin of evil is traced ; the cause of all 
our misery discovered ; and the remedy, the infallible 
remedy, both clearly shown, and freely offered. The 
atonement and intercession of Christ lay a firm found- 
ation for all our hopes ; while gratitude for his dying 
love suggests the most winning incitements to every 
duty. — Morality, Theron, your (and let me add, my) 
admired morality, is here delineated in all its branches, 
is placed upon its proper basis, and raised to its highest 
elevation. The Holy Spirit is promised to enlighten 
the darkness of our understandings, and strengthen the 

imbecility of our wills. What an ample Can you 

indulge me in this favourite topic? 



132 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

THEK.0N. 

It is, I assure you, equally pleasing to myself. Your 
enlargements, therefore, need no apology. 

ASPASIO. 

What ample provision is made, or referred to, by 
these excellent hooks, for all our spiritual wants ! and, 
in this respect, how indisputable is their superiority to 
all other compositions ! Is any one convinced of guilt, 
as provoking Heaven, and ruining the soul? Let him 
ask reason to point out a means of reconciliation, and a 
refuge of safety. Reason hesitates, as she replies; 
" The Deity may, perhaps, accept our supplications, 
and grant forgiveness." But the Scriptures leave us 
not to the sad uncertainty of conjecture. They speak 
the language of clear assurance. God has set forth a 
propitiation : he does forgive our iniquities : he will 
remember our sins no more. 

Are we assaulted by temptation, or averse to duty ? 
Philosophy may attempt to parry the thrust or to stir up 
the reluctant mind, by disclosing the deformity of vice, 
and urging the fitness of things. Feeble expedients ! 
just as well calculated to accomplish the ends proposed, 
as the flimsy fortification of a cobweb to defend us 
from the ball of a cannon. The Bible recommends no 
such incompetent succours. " My grace," says its Al- 
mighty Author, " is sufficient for thee." — " Sin shall not 
have dominion over you." — The great Jehovah, in whom 
is everlasting strength, " worketh in us both to will, and 
to do, of his good pleasure." 

Should we be visited with sickness, or overtaken by 
anv calamity, the consolation which Plato offers, is, 
that such dispensations coincide with the universal plan 



Chap. 6. Dialogues. 1 






of divine government. Virgil will tell us, for our 
relief, that afflictive visitations are, more or less, the 
unavoidable lot of all men. Another moralist whispers 
in the dejected sufferers ear, " Impatience adds to the 
load : whereas a calm submission renders it more sup- 
portable." — Does the word of revelation dispense such 
spiritless and fugitive cordials? — No: those sacred 
pages inform us, that tribulations are fatherly chastise- 
ments, tokens of our Maker's love, and fruits of his 
care ; that they are intended to work in us the peace- 
able fruits of righteousness ; and to work out for us 
an eternal weight of glor)^. 

Should we, under the summons of death, have re- 
course to the most celebrated comforters in the heathen 
world; they would increase our apprehensions, rather 
than mitigate our dread. Death is represented, by the 
great master of their schools, as the most formidable 
of all evils. They were not able to determine, whe- 
ther the soul survived the body. Whereas, this in- 
spired volume strips the monster of his horrors, or turns 
him into a messenger of peace ; gives him an angePs 
face, and a deliverer's hand; and ascertains to the 
souls of the righteous, an immediate translation into the 
regions of bliss. 

THERON. 

Another very distinguishing peculiarity of the sacred 
writings just occurs to my mind; the method of com- 
municating advice, or administering reproof, by pa- 
rables : a method which levels itself to the lowest ap- 
prehension, without giving offence to the most super- 
cilious temper. Our Lord was asked by a student of 
the Jewish law, a Who is my neighbour ?" which im- 
plied another question, " How is he to beloved?" The 



134 Sequel to the English Reader. Part j. 

inquirer was conceited of himself, yet ignorant of the 
truth, and deficient in his duty. Had the wise instructor 
of mankind abruptly declared, " Thou neither knowest 
the former, nor fulfillest the latter;" probably the 
querest would have reddened with indignation, and 
departed in a rage. To teach, therefore, and not dis- 
gust ; to convince the man of his error, and not ex- 
asperate his mind, he frames a reply, as amiable in the 
manner, as it was well adapted to the purpose. 

A certain person going down from Jerusalem to 
Jericho, fell among thieves. Not content to rob him of 
his treasure, they strip him of his garments ; wound him 
with great barbarity ; and leave him half dead. Soon 
after this calamitous accident, a traveller happens to 
come along that very road : and what renders him 
more likely to afford relief, he is one of the ministers of 
religion ; one who taught others the lovely lessons of 
humanity and charity ; and who was, therefore, under 
the strongest obligations to exemplify them in his own 
practice. He just glances an eye upon the deplorable 
object ; sees him stretched on the cold ground, and 
weltering in his blood ; but takes no farther notice : 
nay, to avoid the trouble of an inquiry, he passes by on 
the other side. Scarcely was he departed, when a 
Levite approaches. This man comes nearer, and looks 
on the miserable spectacle ; takes a leisurely and at- 
tentive survey of the case : and though every gash in 
the bleeding flesh cried and pleaded for compassion, 
this minister of the sanctuary neither speaks a word to 
comfort, nor moves a hand to help. Last of all comes a 
Samaritan j one of the abhorred nation, whom the Jews 
hated with the most implacable malignity. Though 
the Levite had neglected an expiring brother ; though 
the priest had withheld his pity from oqe of the Lord's 



Chap* 6. Dialogues. 135 

peculiar people ; the very moment this Samaritan sees 
the unhappy sufferer, he melts into commiseration. He 
forgets the embittered foe, and considers only the 
distressed fellow-creature. He springs from his horse 
and resolves to intermit his journey. The oil and wine, 
intended for his own refreshment, he freely converts 
into healing unguents. He binds up the wounds ; sets 
the disabled stranger upon his own beast; and with 
all the assiduity of a servant, with all the tenderness 
of a brother, conducts him to an inn. There he 
deposits money for his present use ; charges the host 
to omit nothing that might conduce to the recovery 
or comfort of his guest; and promises to defray the 
whole expense of his lodging, his maintenance, and his 
cure. 

What a lively picture of the most disinterested and 
active benevolence ! a benevolence which excludes no 
persons, not even strangers or enemies, from its tender 
regards ; which disdains no condescension, grudges no 
cost, in its labours of love ! Could any method of con- 
viction have been more forcible, and at the same time 
more pleasing, than the interrogatory proposed by our 
Lord, and deduced from the narrative ? " Which now 
of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him 
that fell among thieves ?" Or can there be an advice 
more suitable to the occasion, more important in its 
nature, or expressed with a more sententious energy, 
than that which is contained in these words ; " Go thou, 
and do likewise ?" In this case, the learner instructs, 
the delinquent condemns, himself. Bigotry bears away 
its prejudice; and pride, (when the moral so sweetly, 
so imperceptibly insinuates,) even pride itself, lends a 
willing ear to admonition. 



136 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari I. 

ASPASIO. 

It has been very justly remarked, that this eloquence 
of similitude is equally affecting to the wise, and in- 
telligible to the ignorant. It shows, rather than relates, 
the point to be illustrated. It has been admired by the 
best judges in all ages; but never was carried to its 
highest perfection, till our Lord spoke the parable of 
the prodigal ; which has a beauty that no paraphrase 
can heighten ; a perspicuity that renders all interpre- 
tation needless ; and a force which every reader, not 
totally insensible, must feel. 

THERON. 

The condescension and goodness of God are every 
where conspicuous. In the productions of nature, he 
conveys to us the most valuable fruits, by the inter- 
vention of the loveliest blossoms. Though the present 
is in itself extremely acceptable, he has given it an 
additional endearment, by the beauties which array it, 
or the perfumes which surround it. In the pages of 
revelation, likewise, he has communicated to us the 
most glorious truths, adorned with the excellences of 
composition. They are, as one of their writers very 
elegantly speaks, ki like apples of gold in pictures of 
silver." 

ASPASIO 

Who then would not willingly obey that benign 
command? " Thou shalt talk of them, when thou sittest 
in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way ; 
when thouliest down, and when thou risest up." 

When I consider the language of the Scriptures, and 
sometimes experience the holy energy which accom- 



Chap. 6. Dialogues. 137 

panies them, I am inclined to sa3^, " Other writings, 
though polished with the nicest touches of art, only- 
tinkle on the ear, or affect us like the shepherd's reed. 
But these, even amidst all their noble ease, strike, alarm, 
transport us." When I consider the contents of the 
Scriptures, and believe myself interested in the promises 
they make, and the privileges they confer, I am in- 
duced to cry out, " What are all the other books in the 
world, compared with these invaluable volumes?"* 

HERVEY* 



* That accomplished scholar and distinguished writer, the late 
Sir William Jones, chief justice of Bengal, at the end of his Bible 
wrote the following note ; which coming from a man of his pro- 
found erudition, and perfect knowledge of the oriental languages* 
customs, and manners, must be considered as a powerful testimony, 
not only to the sublimity, but to the Divine inspiration of the sa- 
cred writings. 

" I have," says he, '* regularly and attentively read these Holy 
Scriptures; and I am of opinion, that this volume, independently 
of its Divine origin, contains more true sublimity, more exquisite 
beauty, more pure morality, more important history, and finer 
strains both of poetry and eloquence, than can be collected from all 
other books, in whatever age or language they may have been 
composed." 



U 2 



( 138 ) 

CHAPTER VII; 

PUBLIC SPEECHES. 



SECTION I. 

The defence of Socrates before his Judges, 

Socrates, in his defence, employed neither artifice 
nor the glitter of eloquence. He had not recourse 
either to solicitation or entreaty. He brought neither 
his wife nor children to incline the judges in his favour, 
by their sighs and tears. But though he firmly refused 
to make use of any other voice than his own, and to 
appear before his judges in the submissive posture of a 
suppliant, he did not behave in that manner from pride, 
or contempt of the tribunal : it was from a noble and 
intrepid assurance, resulting from greatness of soul, and 
the consciousness of his truth and innocence. His de- 
fence had nothing timorous or weak in it. His dis- 
course was bold, manly, generous, without passion, 
without emotion, full of the noble liberty of a philo- 
sopher, with no other ornament than that of truth, and 
brightened universally with the character and language 
of innocence. Plato, who was present, transcribed it 
afterwards, and without any additions, composed from 
it the work which he calls the Apology of Socrates, 
one of the most consummate master-pieces of antiquity. 
The following is an extract from it. 

" I am accused of corrupting the youth, and of in- 
stilling dangerous maxims into their minds, as well in 
regard to Divine worship, as to the rules of government. 



Chap. 7. Public Speeches. 139 

You know, Athenians, that I never made it my pro- 
fession to teach: nor can envy, however violent, reproach 
me with having ever sold my instructions. I have an 
undeniable evidence for me in this respect, which is my 
poverty. I am always equally ready to communicate my 
thoughts both to the rich and the poor, and to give 
them opportunity to question or answer me. I lend 
myself to every one who is desirous of becoming vir- 
tuous; and if, amongst those who hear me, there are 
any that prove either good or bad, neither the virtues 
of the one, nor the vices of the other, to which I have 
not contributed, are to be ascribed to me. My whole 
employment is to counsel the young and the old against 
too much love for the body, for riches, and all other 
precarious things, of whatever nature they be ; and 
against too little regard for the soul, which ought to be 
the object of their affection. For I incessantly urge to 
them, that virtue does not proceed from riches ; but, on 
the contrary, riches from virtue ; and that all the other 
goods of human life, as well public as private, have 
their source in the same principle. 

" If to speak in this manner be to corrupt yo'uth, I 
confess, Athenians, that I am guilty, and deserve to be 
punished. If what I say be not true, it is most easy to 
convict me of falsehood. I see here a great number of 
my disciples : they have only to come forward. It will 
perhaps be said, that the regard and veneration due to 
a master who has instructed them, will prevent them 
from declaring against me : but their fathers, brothers, 
and uncles, cannot, as good relations and good citizens, 
excuse themselves for not standing forth to demand 
vengeance against the corrupter of their sons, brothers, 
and nephews. These are, however, the persons who 
take upon them rny defence, and interest themselves in 
the success of my cause. 



140 Sequel to the English Reader* Part i. 

" Pass on me what sentence you please, Athenians ; 
I can neither repent nor alter my conduct. I must 
not abandon or suspend a function which God him- 
self has imposed on me. Now he has charged me 
with the care of instructing my fellow- citizens. If after 
having faithfully kept all the posts wherein I was placed 
by our generals at Potidsea, Amphipolis, and Delium, 
the fear of death should at this time make me abandon 
that in which the divine Providence has placed me, by 
commanding me to pass my life in the study of philo- 
sophy, for the instruction of myself and others ; this 
would be a most criminal desertion indeed, and make 
me highly worthy of being cited before this tribunal, 
as an impious man, who does not believe in the gods. 
Should you resolve to acquit me, I should not, Athe- 
nians, hesitate to say, I honour and love you ; but I shall 
choose rather to obey God than you ; and to my latest 
breath shall never renounce my philosophy, nor cease 
to exhort and reprove you according to my custom, by 
saying to each of you as occasion oilers ; u My good 
friend and citizen of the most famous city in the world 
for wisdom and valour, are you not ashamed to have 
tio other thoughts than those of amassing wealth, and 
of acquiring glory, credit, and dignities ; neglecting the 
treasures of prudence, truth, and wisdom, and taking 
no pains to render your soul as good and perfect as it is 
capable of being?" 

u I arn reproached with abject fear, and meanness of 
spirit, for being so busy in imparting my advice to every 
one in private, and for having always avoided to be 
present in your assemblies to give my counsels to my 
country. I think I have sufficiently proved my courage 
and fortitude, both in the field, where I have borne 
arms with you, and in the senate, where I alone op- 



Chap. 7. Public Speeches, 141 

posed the unjust sentence you pronounced against the 
ten captains, who had not taken up and interred the 
bodies of those who were killed and drowned in the 
sea-fight near the island Arginusae; and when, upon 
more than one occasion, I opposed the violent and cruel 
orders of the thirty tyrants. What is it then that has 
prevented me from appearing in your assemblies ? Do 
not take it ill, I beseech you, if I speak my thoughts 
without disguise, and with truth and freedom* Every 
man who would generously oppose a whole people, 
either amongst us or elsewhere, and who inflexibly ap- 
plies himself to prevent the violation of the laws, and 
the practice of iniquity in a government, will never do 
so long with impunity. It is absolutely necessary for 
a man of this disposition, if he has any thoughts of 
living, to remain in a private station, and never to 
have any share in public affairs, 

u For the rest, Athenians, if, in my present extreme 
danger, I do not imitate the behaviour of those, who, 
upon less emergencies, have implored and supplicated 
their judges with tears, and have brought forth their 
children, relations, and friends ; it is not through pride 
and obstinacy, or any contempt for you, but solely for 
your honour, and for that of the whole city. You 
should know, that there are amongst our citizens those 
who do not regard death as an evil, and who give that 
name only to injustice and infamy. At my age, and 
with the reputation, true or false, ivhich I have, would 
it be consistent for me, after all the lessons Lhave given 
upon the contempt of death, to be afraid of it myself, 
and to belie, in my last action, all the principles and 
sentiments of my past life ? 

" But, without speaking of my fame, which I should 
extremely injure by such a conduct, I do not think it 

, ' £--•- 



142 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

allowable to intreat a judge, nor to be absolved by sup- 
plications. He ought to be influenced only by reason 
and evidence. The judge does not sit upon the bench 
to show favour, by violating the laws, but to do justice 
in conforming to them. He does not swear to discharge 
with impunity whom he pleases, but to do justice where 
it is due. We ought not, therefore, to accustom you 
to perjury, nor you to suffer yourselves to be accustom- 
ed to it ; for, in so doing, both the one and the other 
of us equally injure justice and religion, and both are 
criminals. 

" Do not, therefore, expect from me, Athenians, that 
I should have recourse amongst you to means which I 
believe neither honest nor lawful, especially upon this 
occasion, wherein I am accused of impiety by Melitus: 
for, if I should influence you with my prayers, and there- 
by induce you to violate your oaths, it would be unde- 
niably evident, that I teach you not to believe in the 
gods; and even in defending and justifying myself, 
should furnish vay adversaries with arms against me, 
and prove that I believe no divinity. But I am very 
far from such bad thoughts : I am more convinced of 
the existence of God than my accusers are ; and so con- 
vinced, that I abandon myself to God and you, that 
you may judge of me as you shall deem best for your- 
selves and me." 

Socrates pronounced this discourse with a firm and 
intrepid tone. His air, his action, his visage, expressed 
nothing of the accused. He seemed to be the master 
of his judges, from the greatness of soul with which he 
spoke, without however losing any of the modesty na- 
tural to him. But how slight soever the proofs werfe 
against him, the faction was powerful enough to find 



Chap. 7. Public Speeches. 143 

him guilty. There was the form of a process against 
him, and his irreligion was the pretence upon which 
it was grounded ; but his death was certainly a con- 
certed thing. His steady uninterrupted course of ob- 
stinate virtue, which had made him in many cases 
appear singular, and oppose whatever he thought illegal 
or unjust, without any regard to times or persons, had 
procured him a great deal of envy and ill-will. After 
his sentence, he continued with the same serene and 
intrepid aspect with which he had long enforced vir- 
tue, and held tyrants in awe. When he entered his 
prison, which then became the residence of virtue and 
probity, his friends followed him, and continued to 
visit him during the interval between his condemnation 
and his death. goldsmith. 

section II. 

The Scythian ambassadors to Alexander, on his making 1 
preparations, to attack their country. 

If your person were as gigantic as your desires, the 
world could not contain you. Your right hand would 
touch the east, and your left the west at the same time: 
you grasp at more than you are equal to. From 
Europe you reach Asia ; from Asia you lay hold on 
Europe. And if you should conquer all mankind, you 
seem disposed to wage war with woods and snows, 
with rivers and wild beasts, and to attempt to subdue 
nature. But have you considered the usual course of 
things ? have you reflected, that great trees are many 
years in growing to their height, and are cut down in 
an hour ? It is foolish to think of the fruit only, without 
considering the height you have to climb to come at it. 



144 Sequel to the English Reader* Part I. 

Take care, lest, while you strive to reach the top, you 
fail to the ground with the branches you have laid 
hold on. 

Besides, what have you to do with the Scythians, or 
the Scythians with you ? We have never invaded Ma- 
cedon ; why should you attack Scythia? You pretend 
to be the punisher of robbers ; and are yourself the ge- 
neral robber of mankind. You have taken Lydia; you 
have seized Syria ; you are master of Persia ; you have 
subdued the Bactrians, and attacked India: all this 
will not satisfy you, unless you lay your greedy and in- 
satiable hands upon our flocks and our herds. How 
imprudent is your conduct! you grasp at riches, the 
possession of which only increases your avarice. You 
increase your hunger, by what should produce satiety ; 
so that the more you have, the more you desire. But 
have you forgotten how long the conquest of the 
Bactrians detained you? While you were subduing 
them the Sogdians revolted. Your victories serve to 
no other purpose than to find you employment, by pro- 
ducing new wars ; for the business of every conquest is 
twofold, to win, and to preserve. Though you may be 
the greatest of warriors, you must expect that the na- 
tions you conquer will endeavour to shake off the yoke 
as fast as possible : for what people choose to be under 
foreign dominion ? 

If you will cross the Tanais, you may travel over 
Scythia, and observe bow extensive a territory we in- 
habit: but to conquer us is quite another business. 
You will find us, at one time, too nimble for your pur- 
suit; and at another, when you think we are iied 
far enough from you, you will have us surprise you in 
your camp: for the Scythians attack with no less vi- 
gour than they fly. It will therefore, be your wisdom 



Chap. 7. Public Speeches. 145 

to keep with strict attention what you have gained: 
catching at more you may lose what you have. We 
have a proverbial saying in Scythia, That Fortune has 
no feet, and is furnished only with hands to distribute 
her capricious favours, and with fins to elude the grasp 
of those to whom she has been bountiful. — You profess 
yourself to be a god, the son of Jupiter Ammon: it 
suits the character of a god to bestow favours on 
mortals, not to deprive them of what they have. But 
if you are no god, reflect on the precarious condition 
of humanity. You will thus show more wisdom, than 
by dwelling on those subjects which have puffed up 
your pride, and made you forget yourself. 

You see how little you are likely to gain by attempt- 
ing the conquest of Scythia. On the other hand, you 
may, if you please, have in us a valuable alliance. 
We command the borders both of Europe and Asia. 
There is nothing between us and Bactria but the river 
Tanais ; and our territory extends to Thrace, which, 
as we have heard, borders on Macedon. If you de- 
cline attacking us in a hostile manner, you may have 
our friendship. Nations which have never been at 
war are on an equal footing ; but it is in vain that con- 
fidence is reposed in a conquered people. There can 
be no sincere friendship between the oppressors and 
the oppressed : even in peace, the latter think them- 
selves entitled to the rights of war against the former. 
We will, if you think good, enter into a treaty with 
you, according to our manner, which is not by signing, 
sealing, and taking the gods to witness, as is the Gre- 
cian custom ; but by doing actual services. The Scy- 
thians are not used to promise, but perforin without 
promising. And they think an appeal to the gods su- 
perfluous ; for that those who have no regard for the 

N 






*46 Sequel to the English Reader, Part i. 

esteem of men will not hesitate to offend the gods by 
perjury. — You may therefore consider with yourself, 
whether you would choose to have for allies or for 
enemies, a people of such a character, and so situated 
as to have it in their power either to serve you or to 
annoy you, according as you treat them. 

q. cuRTrus. 

SECTION III. 

Speech of the Earl of Chatham, on the subject of em- 
ploying Indians to fght against the Americans, 

I cannot, my lords, I will not, join in congratu- 
lation on misfortune and disgrace. This, my lords, is 
a perilous and tremendous moment: it is not a time 
for adulation ; the smoothness of flattery cannot save us 
in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to 
instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must, 
if possible, dispel the delusion and darkness which en- 
velope it; and display, in its full danger and genuine 
colours, the ruin which is brought to our doors. Can 
ministers still presume to expect support in their in- 
fatuation ? Can parliament be so dead to its dignity 
and duty, as to give their support to measures thus ob- 
truded and forced upon them ? measures, my lords, 
which have reduced this late flourishing empire to 
scorn and contempt ! But yesterday, and England might 
have stood against the world ; now, none so poor as to 
do her reverence ! The people, whom we at first de- 
spised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as 
enemies, are abetted against us, supplied with every 
military store, their interest consulted, and their am- 
bassadors entertained by our inveterate enemy ; — and 



Chap, 7, Public Speeches, 147 

ministers do not, and dare not, interpose with dignity 
or effect. The desperate state of our army abroad is in 
part known. No man more highly esteems and honours 
the English troops than I do : I know their virtues and 
their valour: I know they can achieve any thing but 
impossibilities ; and I know that the conquest of English 
America is an impossibility. You cannot, my lords, 
you cannot conquer America. What is your present 
situation there? We do not know the worst: but we 
know that in three campaigns we have done nothing, 
and suffered much. You may swell every expense, 
accumulate every assistance, and extend your traffic to 
the shambles of every German despot; your attempts 
will be for ever vain and impotent ; — doubly so, indeed, 
from this mercenary aid on which you rely ; for it 
irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your 
adversaries, to overrun them with the mercenary sons 
of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their pos- 
sessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty. 

But, my lords, who is the man, that, in addition to 
the disgraces and mischiefs of the war, has dared to 
authorise and associate to our arms, the tomohawk and 
scalping knife of the savage? — to call into civilized 
alliance, the wild and inhuman inhabitants of the 
woods? — to delegate to the merciless Indian, the defence 
of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his bar- 
barous war against our brethren? My lords, these 
enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. But 
my lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, 
not only on the principles of policy and necessity, but 
also on those of morality j " for it is perfectly allowable," 
says Lord Suffolk, " to use all the means which God 
and nature have put into our hands." I am astonished, 
I am shocked, to hear such principles confessed ; to hear 



148 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

them avowed in this house, or in this country. My 
lords, I did not intend to encroach so much on your 
attention ; but I cannot repress my indignation — I feel 
myself impelled to speak. My lords, we are called 
upon as members of this house, as men, as Christians, 
to protest against such horrible barbarity! — " That God 
and nature have put into our hands!" What ideas of 
God and nature, that noble lord may entertain, I know 
not ; but I know, that such detestable principles are 
equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. What! 
to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature to 
the massacres of the Indian scalping knife! to the savage, 
torturing and murdering his unhappy victims! Such 
notions shock every precept of morality, every feeling 
of humanity, every sentiment of honour. These abomin- 
able principles, and this more abominable avowal of 
them, demand the most decisive indignation. I call 
upon that right reverend, and this most learned 
Bench, to vindicate the religion of their God, to support 
the justice of their country. I call upon the bishops to 
interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn — upon the 
judges to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save 
us from this pollution. I call upon the honour of your 
lordships, to reverence the dignity of your ancestors, and 
to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and hu- 
manity of my country, to vindicate the national character. 
I invoke the genius of the constitution. From the 
tapestry that adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor 
of this noble lord frowns with indignation at the dis- 
grace of his country. In vain did he defend the liberty, 
and establish the religion of Britain, against the tyranny 
of Rome, if these worse than Popish cruelties and in- 
quisitorial practices, are endured among us. To send 
forth the merciless Indian, thirsting for blood! against 



Chap. 7. Public Speeches, 149 

whom? — your protestant brethren! — to lay waste their 
country, to desolate their dwellings, and extirpate their 
race and name, by the aid and instrumentality of these 
ungovernable savages ! — Spain can no longer boast pre- 
eminence in barbarity. She armed herself with blood- 
hounds to extirpate the wretched natives of Mexico ; 
we, more ruthless, loose those brutal warriors against 
our countrymen in America, endeared to us by every 
tie that can sanctify humanity. I solemnly call upon 
your lordships, and upon every order of men in the 
state, to stamp upon this infamous procedure the in- 
delible stigma of the public abhorrence. More par- 
ticularly, I call upon the venerable prelates of our 
religion, to do' away this iniquity; let them perform 
a lustration to purify the country from this deep and 
deadly sin. 

My lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable 
to say more ; but my feelings and indignation were too 
strong to have allowed me to say less. I could not 
have slept this night in my bed, nor even reposed my 
head upon my pillow, without giving vent to my stead- 
fast abhorrence of such enormous and preposterous 
principles. 



•N2 



( 1^0 ) 



CHAPTER VIII. 

PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 



SECTION I. 



The Voyage of Life : an allegory* 

"Life," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progress of 
which we are perpetually changing our scenes. We first 
leave childhood behind us, then youth, then the years 
of ripened manhood, then the better or more pleasing 
part of old age." The perusal of this passage having 
excited in me a train of reflections on the state of 
man, the incessant fluctuation of his wishes, the gra- 
dual change of his disposition to all external objects, 
and the thoughtlessness with which he floats along 
the stream of time, I sunk into a slumber amidst 
my meditations, and, on a sudden, found my ears 
filled with the tumult of labour, the shouts of ala- 
crity, the shrieks of alarm, the whistle of winds, and 
the dash of waters. My astonishment for a time re- 
pressed my curiosity ; but soon recovering myself so far 
as to inquire whither we were going, and what was 
the cause of such clamour and confusion, I was told 
that we were launching out into the ocean of life j 
that we had already passed the straits of Infancy, in 
which multitudes had perished, some by the weakness 
and fragility of their vessels, and more by the folly, 
perverseness, or negligence, of those who undertook to 
steer them ; and that we were now on the main aea, 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces* 151 

abandoned to the winds and billows, without any other 
means of security than the care of the pilot, whom it 
was always in our power to choose, among great num- 
bers that offered their direction and assistance. 

I then looked round with anxious eagerness: and, 
first turning my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing 
through flowery islands, which every one that sailed 
along seemed to behold with pleasure ; but no sooner 
touched them, than the current, which, though not noisy 
or turbulent, was yet irresistible, bore him away. Be- 
yond these islands, all was darkness; nor could any of the 
passengers describe the shore at which he first embarked* 

Before me, and on each side was an expanse of wa- 
ters violently agitated, and covered with so thick a 
mist, that the most perspicacious eyes could see but a 
little way. It appeared to be full of rocks and whirl- 
pools ; for many sunk unexpectedly while they were 
courting the gale with full sails, and insulting those 
whom they had left behind. So numerous, indeed, 
were the dangers, and so thick the darkness, that no 
caution could confer security. Yet there were many> 
who, by false intelligence, betrayed their followers 
into whirlpools, or by violence pushed those whom they 
found in their way against the rocks. 

The current was invariable and insurmountable: 
but, though it was impossible to sail against it, or to 
return to the place that was once passed, yet it was 
not so violent as to allow no opportunities for dexterity 
or courage ; since, though none could retreat back from 
danger, yet they might often avoid it by oblique di- 
rection. 

It was however, not very common to steer with 
much care or prudence; for, by some universal infa- 
tuation, every man appeared to think himself safe^ 



152 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

though he saw his consorts every moment sinking round 
him ; and no sooner had the waves closed over them, 
than their fate and their misconduct were forgotten ; 
the voyage was pursued with the same jocund confi- 
dence ; every man congratulated himself upon the 
soundness of his vessel, and believed himself able to 
stem the whirlpool in which his friend was swallowed, 
or glide over the rocks on which he was dashed : nor 
was it often observed that the sight of a wreck made 
any man change his course. ^If he turned aside for a 
moment, he soon forgot the rudder, and left himself 
again to the disposal of chance. 

This negligence did not proceed from indifference, 
or from weariness of their present condition; for not 
one of those who thus rushed upon destruction, failed, 
when he was sinking, to call loudly upon his associates 
for that help which could not now be given him : and 
many spent their last moments in cautioning others 
against the folly by which they were intercepted in the 
midst of their course. Their benevolence was some- 
times praised, but their admonitions were unregarded. 

The vessels in which we had embarked, being con- 
fessedly unequal to the turbulence of the stream of life, 
were visibly impaired in the course of the voyage, so 
that every passenger was certain, that how long soever 
he might, by favourable accidents, or by incessant vi- 
gilance, be preserved, he must sink at last. 

This necessity of perishing might have been ex- 
pected to sadden the gay, and intimidate the daring ; 
at least to keep the melancholy and timorous in per- 
petual torments, and hinder them from any enjoyment 
of the varieties and gratifications which nature offered 
them as the solace of their labours ; yet in effect none 
seemed less to expect destruction than those to whom 



Chap* 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 153 

it was most dreadful ; they all had the art of conceal- 
ing their danger from themselves; and those who 
knew their inability to bear the sight of the terrors that 
embarrassed their way, took care never to look for- 
ward; but found some amusement of the present mo- 
ment, and generally entertained themselves by playing 
with Hope, who was the constant associate of the 
Voyage of Life. 

Yet all thai Hope ventured to promise, even to those 
whom she favoured most, was, not that they should 
escape, but that they should sink last; and with this 
promise every one was satisfied, though he laughed at 
the rest for 'seeming to believe it. Hope, indeed, ap- 
parently mocked the credulity of her companions ; for, 
in proportion as their vessels grew leaky, she redoubled 
her assurances of safety ; and none were more busy in 
making provisions for a long voyage, than they whom 
all but themselves saw likely to perish soon by irre- 
parable decay. 

In the midst of the current of Life, was the gulf of 
Intemperance, a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with 
recks, of which the pointed crags were concealed un- 
der water, and the tops covered with herbage, on 
which Ease spread couches of repose ; and with shades, 
where pleasure warbled the song of invitation. Within 
sight of these rocks, all who sailed on the ocean of Life 
must necessarily pass. Reason indeed was always at 
hand, to steer the passengers through a narrow outlet, 
by which they might escape; but very few could, by 
her entreaties or remonstrances, be induced to put the 
rudder into her hand, without stipulating that she 
should approach so near the rocks of Pleasure, that they 
mighi. solace themselves with a short enjoyment of that 



154 Sequel to the English Reader. JPart >. 

delicious region, after which they always determined 
to pursue their course without any other deviation. 

Reason was too often prevailed upon so far by these 
promises, as to venture her charge within the eddy of 
the gulf of Intemperance, where, indeed, the cir- 
cumvolution was weak, but yet interrupted the course 
of the vessel, and drew it, by insensible rotations, to- 
wards the centre. She then repented her temerity, 
and with all her force endeavoured to retreat ; but the 
draught o£ the gulf was generally too strong to be 
overcome ; and the passenger, having danced in circles 
with a pleasing and giddy velocity, was at last over- 
whelmed and lost. Those few whom Reason was able 
to extricate, generally suffered so many shocks upon 
the points which shot out from the rocks of Pleasure, 
that they were unable to continue their course with 
the same strength and facility as before ; but floated 
along timorously and feebly, endangered by every 
breeze, and shattered by every ruffle of the water, till 
they sunk, by slow degrees, after long struggles, and 
innumerable expedients, always repining at their own 
folly, and warning others against the first approach to- 
wards the gulf of Intemperance. 

There were artists who professed to repair the 
breaches, and stop the leaks, of the vessels which had 
been shattered on the rocks of Pleasure. Many ap- 
peared to have great confidence in their skill j and 
some, indeed, were preserved by it from sinking, who 
had received only a single blow: but I remarked, that 
few vessels lasted long which had been much repaired ; 
nor was it found that the artists themselves continued 
afloat longer than those who had least of their assistance. 

The only advantage, which, in the voyage of Life* 
the cautious had above the negligent, was, that they 



Chap 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 155 

sunk later, and more suddenly ; for they passed forward 
till they had sometimes seen all those in whose company 
they had issued from the straits of Infancy, perish in the 
way, and at last were overset by a cross breeze, with- 
out the toil of resistance, or the anguish of expectation. 
But such as had often fallen against the rocks of Plea- 
sure, commonly subsided by sensible degrees ; con- 
tended long with the encroaching waters; and ha- 
rassed themselves by labours that scarcely Hope herself 
could flatter with success. 

As I was looking upon the various fates of the mul- 
titude about me, I was suddenly alarmed with an ad- 
monition from some unknown power : " Gaze not idly 
upon others when thou thyself art sinking. Whence 
is this thoughtless tranquillity, when thou and they are 
equally endangered?" I looked, and seeing the gulf 
of Intemperance before me, started and awaked. 

DR. JOHNSON. 
SECTION II. 

The vanity of those pursuits which have human appro- 
bation for their chief object 

Among the emirs and viziers, the sons of valour and 
of wisdom, that stand at the corners of the Indian throne, 
to assist the councils, or conduct the wars of the pos- 
terity of Timur, the first place was long held by Morad, 
the son of Hanuth. Morad having signalized himself 
in many battles and sieges, was rewarded with the gov- 
ernment of a province, from which the fame of his 
wisdom and moderation was wafted to the pinnacles 
of Agra, by the prayers of those whom his administra- 
tion made happy. The emperor called him into his 



I 56 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

presence, and gave into his hand the keys of riches, 
and the sabre of command. The voice of Morad was 
heard from the cliffs of Taurus to the Indian ocean : 
every tongue faltered in his presence, and every eye 
was cast down before him. 

Morad lived many years in prosperity: every day 
increased his wealth, and extended his influence. The 
sages repeated his maxims ; the captains of thousands 
waited his commands. Competition withdrew into 
the cavern of envy, and discontent trembled at her 
own murmurs. But human greatness is short and tran- 
sitory, as the odour of incense in the fire. The sun 
grew weary of gilding the palaces of Morad ; the clouds 
of sorrow gathered round his head ; and the tempest 
of hatred roared about his dwelling. 

Morad saw ruin hastily approaching. The first that 
forsook him were his poets. Their example was fol- 
lowed by all those whom he had rewarded for contri- 
buting to his pleasures ; and only a few whose virtue 
had entitled them to favour, were now to be seen in 
his hall or chambers. He felt his danger, and pro- 
strated himself at the foot of the throne. His accusers 
were confiden^and loud; his friends stood contented 
with frigid neutrality ; and the voice of truth was over- 
borne by clamour. He was divested of his power, de- 
prived of his acquisitions, and condemned to pass the 
rest of his life on his hereditary estate. 

Morad had been so long accustomed to crowds and 
business, supplicants and flattery, that he knew not how 
to fill up his hours in solitude. He saw, with regret, 
the sun rise to force on his eye a new day for which he 
had no use ; and envied the savage that wanders in the 
desert, because he has no time vacant from the calls of 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 157 

nature, but is always chasing his prey, or sleeping in 
his den. 

His discontent in time vitiated his constitution, and 
a slow disease seized upon him. He refused physic, 
neglected exercise, and lay down on his couch peevish 
and restless, rather afraid to die, than desirous to live. 
His domestics, for a time, redoubled their assiduities ; 
but finding that no officiousness could sooth, nor exact- 
ness satisfy, they soon gave way to negligence and 
sloth; and he that once commanded nations, often 
languished in his chamber without an attendant. 

In this melancholy state, he commanded messengers 
to recall his eldest son, Abouzaid, from the army. Abou- 
zaid was alarmed at the account of his father's sick- 
ness ; and hasted, by long journeys, to his place of re- 
sidence. Morad was yet living, and felt his strength 
return at the embraces of his son : then commanding 
him to sit down at his bed-side, " Abouzaid," said he, 
" thy father has no more to hope or fear from the in- 
habitants of the earth ; the cold hand of the angel of 
death is now upon him, and the voracious grave is 
howling for his prey. Hear therefore the precepts of 
ancient experience : let not my last iffctructions issue 
forth in vain. Thou hast seen me happy and calamit- 
ous : thou hast beheld my exaltation and my fall. My 
power is in the hands of my enemies ; my treasures have 
rewarded my accusers : but my inheritance the cle- 
mency of the emperor has spared ; and n>y wisdom his 
anger could not take away. Cast thine eyes round 
thee : whatever thou beholdest will, in a few hours, be 
thine : apply thine ear to my dictates, and these pos- 
sessions will promote thy happiness. Aspire not to 
public honours ; enter not the palaces of kings : thy 
wealth will set thee above insult ; let thy moderation 

o 



■ 



158 Sequel to the English Reader, fart I. 

keep thee below envy. Content thyself with private 
dignity ; diffuse thy riches among thy friends ; let every 
day extend thy beneficence ; and suffer not thy heart 
to be at rest, till thou art loved by all to whom thou 
art known. In the height of my power, I said to de- 
famation, Who will hear thee ? and to artifice, What 
canst thou perform ? But, my son, despise not thou 
the malice of the weakest : remember that venom sup- 
plies the want of strength ; and that the lion may pe- 
rish by the puncture of an asp." 

Morad expired in a few hours. Abouzaid, after 
the months of mourning, determined to regulate his 
conduct by his father's precepts ; and cultivate the 
love of mankind by every art of kindness and en- 
dearment. He wisely considered, that domestic hap- 
piness was first to be secured ; and that none have 
so much power of doing good or hurt, as those who 
are present in the hour of negligence, hear the bursts 
of thoughtless merriment, and observe the starts of 
unguarded passion. He therefore augmented the pay 
of all his attendants j and requited every exertion 
of uncommon diligence by supernumerary gratuities. 
While he congratulated himself upon the fidelity and 
affection of his family, he was in the night alaumed 
with robbers ; who being pursued and taken, declared, 
that they had been admitted by one of his servants. 
The servant immediately confessed, that he unbarred 
the door, because another, not more worthy of con- 
fidence^ was entrusted with the keys. 

Abouzaid was thus convinced, that a dependent 
could not easily be made a friend ; and that while many 
were soliciting for the first rank of favour, all those 
would be alienated whom he disappointed. He there- 
fore resolved to associate with a few equal companions 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 159 

selected from among the chief men of the province. 
With these he lived happily for a time, till familiarity 
set them free from restraint, and every man thought 
himself at liberty to indulge his own caprice, and ad- 
vance his own opinions. They then disturbed each 
other with contrariety of inclinations, and difference 
of sentiments ; and Abouzaid was necessitated to offend 
one party by concurrence, or both by indifference. 

He afterwards determined to avoid a close union 
with beings so discordant in the.ir nature, and to diffuse 
himself in a larger circle. He practised the smile of 
universal courtesy ; and invited all to his table, but 
admitted none to his retirements. Many who had 
been rejected in his choice of friendship, now refused 
to accept his acquaintance, and of those whom plenty 
and magnificence drew to his table, every one pressed 
forward toward intimacy, thought himself overlooked 
in the crowd, and murmured, because he was not dis*"' 
tinguished above the rest. By degrees, all made ad- 
vances, and all resented repulse. The table was then 
covered with delicacies in vain j the music sounded in 
empty rooms ; and Abouzaid was left to form, in soli- 
tude, some new scheme of pleasure or security. 

Resolving now to try the force of gratitude, he in- 
quired for men of science, whose merit was obsfcured 
by poverty. His house was soon crowded with poets, 
sculptors, painters, and designers, who wantoned^ in un- 
experienced plenty; and employed their powers in. 
celebrating their patron. But in a short time they 
forgot the distress from which they had been rescued ; 
and began to consider their deliverer as a wretch of 
narrow capacity, who was growing great by works 
which he could not perform, and whom they overpaid 
by condescending to accept his bounties. Abouzaid 



160 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

heard their murmurs, and dismissed them ; and from 
that hour continued blind to colours, and deaf to pane- 
gyric. 

As the sons of art departed, muttering threats of per- 
petual infamy, Abouzaid, who stoocWat the gate, called 
to him Hamet the poet. " Hamet," said he, u thy ingra- 
titude has put an end to my hopes and experiments. I 
have now learned the vanity of those labours that wish 
to be rewarded by human benevolence. I shall hence- 
forth do good, and avoid evil, without respect to the 
opinion of men ; and resolve to solicit only the appro- 
bation of that Being, whom alone we are sure to please 
by endeavouring to please him." 

DR. JOHNSON. 
SECTION III. 

The folly and misery of idleness. 

The idle man lives not to himself, with any more 
advantage than he lives to the world. It is indeed on 
a supposition entirely opposite, that persons of this cha- 
racter proceed. They imagine that, how deficient so- 
ever they may be in point of duty, they at least con- 
sult their own satisfaction. They leave to others the 
drudgery of life ; and betake themselves, as they think, 
to the quarter of enjoyment and ease. Now, in con- 
tradiction to this, I assert, and hope to prove, that the 
idle man, first, shuts the door against all improvement ; 
next, that he opens it wide to every destructive folly j 
and, lastly, that he excludes himself from the true en- 
joyment of pleasure. 

First, He shuts the door against improvement of every 
kind, whether of mind, body, or fortune. The law of 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 161 

our nature., the condition under which we were placed 
from our birth, is that nothing good or great is to be 
acquired, without toil and industry. A price is ap- 
pointed by Providence to be paid for every thing ; and 
the price of improvement, is labour. Industry may, 
indeed, be sometimes disappointed. The race may not 
always be to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. 
But, at the same time, it is certain that, in the ordi- 
nary course of things, without strength, the battle can- 
not be gained ; without swiftness, the race cannot be 
run with success. If we consult either the improve- 
ment of the mind, or the health of the body, it is well 
known that exercise is the great instrument of pro- 
moting both. Sloth enfeebles equally the bodily, and 
the mental powers. As in the animal system it engen- 
ders disease, so on the faculties of the soul it brings a 
fatal rust, which corrodes and wastes them ; which, in 
a short time, reduces the brightest genius to the same 
level with the meanest understanding. The' great dif- 
ferences which take place among men, are not owing 
to a distinction that nature has made in their original 
powers, so much as to the superior diligence with 
which some have improved these powers beyond 
others. To no purpose do we possess the seeds of 
many great abilities, if they are suffered to lie dormant 
within us. It is not the latent possession, but the ac- 
tive exertion of them, which gives them merit. Thou- 
sands whom indolence has sunk into contemptible ob- 
scurity, might have come forward to the highest dis~ 
tinction, if idleness had not frustrated the effect of all 
their powers. 

Instead of going pn to improvement, all things go 
to decline, with the ftjle man. His character falls into 
contempt* His fortune is consumed. Disorder, c©&- 

© 2 



162 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

fusion, and embarrassment, mark his whole situation. 
Observe in what lively colours the state of his affairs 
is described by Solomon. u I went by the field of the 
slothful, and by the vineyard of the man void of un- 
derstanding. And lo ! it was all grown over with 
thorns ; nettles had covered the face thereof ; and the 
stone wall was broken down. Then I saw and con- 
sidered it well. I looked upon it, and received in- 
struction." Is it in this manner, that a man lives to 
himself? Are these the advantages, which were ex- 
pected to be found in the lap of ease ? The down may 
at first have appeared soft ; but it will soon be found 
to cover thorns innumerable. This is, however, only a 
small part of the evils which persons of this description 
bring on themselves ; for, 

In the second place, while in this manner they shut 
the door against every improvement, they open it wide 
to the most destructive vices and follies. The human 
mind cannot remain always unemployed. Its passions 
must have some exercise. If we supply them not with 
proper employment, they are sure to run loose into 
riot and disorder. While we are unoccupied by what 
is good, evil is continually at hand j and hence it is 
said in Scripture, that as soon as Satan u found the 
house empty," he took possession, and filled it " with 
evil spirits." Every man who recollects his conduct, 
may be satisfied, that his hours of idleness have always 
proved the hours most dangerous to virtue. It was 
then, that criminal desires arose ; guilty pursuits were 
suggested; and designs were formed, which, in their 
issue, have disquieted and embittered his whole life. 
If seasons of idleness are dangerous, what must a con- 
tinued habit of it prove? Habitual indolence, by a 
silent and secret progress, undermines every virtue hi 






Chap* 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 163 

the soul. More violent passions run their course, and 
terminate. They are like rapid torrents, which foam, 
and swell, and bear down every thing before them. 
But after having overflowed their banks, their impetu- 
osity subsides. They return, by degrees, into their 
natural channel; and the damage which they have 
done, can be repaired. Sloth is like the slowly-flowing, 
putrid stream, which stagnates in the marsh, breeds 
venomous animals, and poisonous plants ; and infects 
with pestilential vapours the whole country round it. 
Having once tainted the soul, it leaves no part of it 
sound; and, at the same time, gives not those alarms 
to conscience, which the eruptions of bolder and 
fiercer emotions often occasion. The disease which it 
brings on, is creeping and insidious ; and is, on that ac- 
count, more certainly mortal. 

One constant effect of idleness, is to nourish the 
passions, and, of course, to heighten our demands for 
gratification ; while it unhappily withdraws from us 
the proper means of gratifying these demands. If the 
desires of the industrious man are set upon opulence 
or distinction, upon the conveniences, or the advan- 
tages of life, he can accomplish his desires, by methods 
which are fair and allowable. The idle man has the 
same desires with the industrious, but not the same re- 
sources for compassing his ends by honourable means. 
He must therefore turn himself to seek by fraud, or by 
violence, what he cannot submit to acquire by industry. 
Hence the origin of those multiplied crimes to which 
idleness is daily giving birth in the world ; and which 
contribute so much to violate the order, and to disturb 
the peace, of society. In general, the children of idle- 
ness may be ranked under two denominations or classes 
of men. Either, incapable of any effort, they are such 



164 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

as sink into absolute meanness of character, and con- 
tentedly wallow with the drunkard and debauchee, 
among the herd of the sensual, until poverty overtakes 
them, or disease cuts them off; or, they are such as, 
retaining some remains of vigour, are impelled, by 
their passions, to venture on a desperate attempt for 
retrieving their ruined fortunes. In this case, they 
employ the art of the fraudulent gamester to insnare 
the unwary. They issue forth with the highwayman 
to plunder on the road ; or with the thief and the 
robber, they infest the city by night. From this class, 
our prisons are peopled; and by them the scaffold is 
furnished with those melancholy admonitions, which 
are so often delivered from it to the crowd. Such are 
frequently the tragical, but well known, consequences 
of the vice of idleness. 

In the third, and last place, how dangerous soever 
idleness may be to virtue, are there not pleasures, it 
may be said, which attend it? Is there not ground to 
plead, that it brings a release from the oppressive cares 
of the world ; and sooths the mind with a gentle satis- 
faction, which is not to be found amidst the toils of a 
busy and active life? — This is an advantage which, 
least of all others, we admit it to possess. In behalf 
of incessant labour, no man contends. Occasional re- 
lease from toil, and indulgence of ease, is what nature 
demands, and virtue allows. But what we assert is, 
that nothing is so great an enemy to the lively and 
spirited enjoyment of life, as a relaxed and indolent 
habit of mind. He who knows not what it is to labour, 
knows not what it is to enjoy. The felicity of human 
life, depends on the regular prosecution of some laud- 
able purpose or object, which keeps awake and enlivens 
all our powers. Our happiness consists in the pursuit, 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous Pieces* 165 

much more than in the attainment, of any temporal 
good. Rest is agreeable ; but it is only from preced- 
ing labours, that rest acquires its true relish. When 
the mind is suffered to remain in continued inaction, 
all its powers decay. It soon languishes and sickens ; 
and the pleasures which it proposed to obtain from 
rest, end in tediousness and insipidity. To this, let 
that miserable set of men bear witness, who, after 
spending great part of their life in active industry, 
have retired to what they fancied was to be a pleasing 
enjoyment of themselves, in wealthy inactivity, and 
profound repose. Where they expected to find an 
elysium, they have found nothing but a dreary and 
comfortless waste. Their days have dragged on, in 
uniform iangour ; with the melancholy remembrance 
often returning, of the cheerful hours they passed, 
when they were engaged in the honest business, and 
labours of the world. 

We appeal to every one who has the least know- 
ledge or observation of life, whether the busy, or the 
idle, have the most agreeable enjoyment of themselves ? 
Compare them in their families. Compare them in 
the societies with which they mingle; and remark, 
which of them discover most cheerfulness and gaiety, 
which possess the most regular flow of spirits ; whose 
temper is most equal j whose good humour, most un- 
clouded. While the active and diligent both enliven, 
and enjoy society, the idle are not only a burden to 
themselves, but a burden to those with whom they are 
connected ; a nuisance to all whom they oppress with 
their company. 

Enough has now been said to convince every think- 
ing person, of the folly, the guilt, and the misery, of 
an idle state. Let these admonitions stir us un to 



166 Sequel to the E?iglish Reader. Part I. 

exert ourselves in our different occupations, with that 
virtuous activity which becomes men and Christians. 
Let us arise from the bed of sloth; distribute our time 
with attention and care ; and improve to advantage 
the opportunities which Providence has bestowed. 
The material business in which our several stations en>- 
gage us, may often prove not sufficient to occupy the 
whole of our time and attention. In the life even of 
busy men, there are frequent intervals of leisure. Let 
them take care, that into these, none of the vices of 
idleness creep. Let some secondary, some subsidiary 
employment, of a fair and laudable kind, be always at 
hand to fill up those vacant spaces of life, which too 
many assign, either to corrupting amusements, or to 
mere inaction. We ought never to forget, that entire 
idleness always borders, either on misery, or on guilt. 
At the same time, let the course of our employments 
be ordered in such a manner, that in carrying them on, 
we may be also promoting our eternal interest. With 
the business of the world, let us properly intermix the 
exercises of devotion. By religious duties, and virtu- 
ous actions, let us study to prepare ourselves for a 
better world. In the midst of our labours for this life, it 
ought never to be forgotten, that we must u first seek the 
kingdom of God, and his righteousness ; and give dili- 
gence to make our calling and election sure :" other- 
wise, how active soever we may seem to be, our whole 
activity will prove only a laborious idleness : we shall 
appear in the end, to have been busy to no purpose, 
or to a purpose worse than none. Then only we ful- 
fil the proper character of Christians, when we join 
that pious zeal which becomes us as the servants of 
God, with that industry which is required of us, as 
good members of society ; when, according to the ex- 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 167 

hortation of the Apostle, we are found " not slothful 
in business," and, at the same time, " fervent in spirit, 
serving the Lord." blair. 

section IV. 

The choice of our situation in life, a point of great 

importance* 

The influence of a new situation of external fortune 
is so great; it gives so different a turn to our temper 
and affections, to our views and desires, that no man 
can foretel what his character would prove, should he 
be either raised or depressed in his circumstances, in 
a remarkable degree; or placed in some sphere of 
action, widely different from that to which he has been 
accustomed in former life. 

The seeds of various qualities, good and bad, lie in 
all our hearts. But until proper occasions ripen, and 
bring them forward, they lie there inactive and dead. 
They are covered up and concealed within the recesses 
of our nature : or, if they spring up at all, it is under 
such an appearance as is frequently mistaken, even by 
ourselves. Pride, for instance, in certain situations, 
has no opportunity of displaying itself, but as magna- 
nimity, or sense of honour. Avarice appears as neces- 
sary and laudable economy. What in one station of 
life would discover itself to be cowardice and baseness 
of mind, passes in another for prudent circumspection. 
What in the fulness of power would prove to be cruelty 
and oppression, is reputed, in a subordinate rank, no 
more than the exercise of proper discipline. For a while, 
the man is known neither by the world, nor by himself, 
to be what he truly is. But bring him into a new situ- 
ation of life, which accords with his predominant dis- 



168 Sequel to the English Reader* Part J. 

position ; which strikes on certain latent qualities of his 
soul, and awakens them into action ; and as the leaves 
of a flower gradually unfold to the sun, so shall all his 
true character open full to view. 

This may, in one light, be accounted not so much an 
alteration of character, produced by a change of cir- 
cumstances, as a discovery brought forth of the real 
character, which formerly lay concealed. Yet, at the 
same time, it is true that the man himself undergoes a 
change. For opportunity being given for certain dis- 
positions, which had been dormant, to exert themselves 
without restraint, they of course gather strength. By 
means of the ascendency which they gain, other parts 
of the temper are borne down : and thus an alteration 
is made in the whole structure and system of the soul. 
He is a truly wise and good man, who, through Divine 
assistance, remains superior to this influence of fortune 
on his character ; who having once imbibed worthy 
sentiments, and established proper principles of action, 
continues constant to these, whatever his circumstances 
be ; maintains, throughout all the changes of his life, 
one uniform and supported tenour of conduct; and 
what he abhorred as evil and wicked, in the beginning 
of his days, continues to abhor to the end. But how 
rare is it to meet with this honourable consistency 
among men, while they are passing through the differ- 
ent stations and periods of life ! When they are setting 
out in the world, before their minds have been greatly 
misled or debased, they glow with generous emotions, 
and look with contempt on what is sordid and guilty. 
But advancing farther in life, and inured by degrees 
to the crooked ways of men; pressing through the 
crowd, and the bustle of the world ; obliged to contend 
with this man's craft, and that man's scorn; accustomed, 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 169 

sometimes, to conceal their sentiments, and often to 
stifle their feelings, they become at last hardened in 
heart, and familiar with corruption. Who would not 
drop a tear over this sad, but frequent fall of human 
probity and honour ? Who is not humbled, when he 
beholds the refined sentiments and high principles on 
which we are so ready to value ourselves, brought to 
such a shameful issue ; and man, with all his boasted 
attainments of reason, discovered so often to be the 
creature of his external fortune, moulded and formed 
by the incidents of his life ? 

Let us for a moment reflect on the dangers which 
arise from stations of power and greatness ; especially, 
when the elevation of men to these has been rapid and 
sudden. Few have the strength of mind which is re- 
quisite for bearing such a change with temperance and 
self-command. The respect which is paid to the great, 
and the scope which their condition affords for the in- 
dulgence of pleasure, are perilous circumstances to vir- 
tue. When men live among their equals, and are ac- 
customed to encounter the hardships of life, they are 
of course reminded of their mutual dependence on 
each other, and of the dependence of all upon God. 
But when they are highly exalted above their fellows, 
they meet with few objects to awaken serious reflec- 
tion, and with many to feed and inflame their passions. 
They are apt to separate their interest from that of all 
around them ; to wrap themselves up in their vain 
grandeur; and, in the lap of indolence and selfish plea- 
sure, to acquire a cold indifference to the concerns 
even of those whom they call their friends. The fanci- 
ed independence into which they are lifted up, is ad- 
verse to sentiments of piety, as well as of humanity, in 
:heir heart. 

p 



1 K 



TO Sequel to the English Reader, Part if. 

But we are not to imagine, that elevated stations in 
the world furnish the only formidable trials to which 
our virtue is exposed. It will be found, that we are 
liable to no fewer, nor less dangerous temptations, from 
the opposite extreme of poverty and depression. When 
men who have known better days are thrown down 
into abject situations of fortune, their spirits are broken, 
and their tempers soured : envy rankles in their breast 
at such as are more successful: the providence of 
Heaven is accused in secret murmurs ; and the sense 
of misery is ready to push them into atrocious crimes, 
in order to better their state. Among the inferior 
classes of mankind, craft and dishonesty are too often 
found to prevail. Low and penurious circumstances 
depress the human powers. They deprive men of the 
proper means of knowledge and improvement ; and 
where ignorance is gross, it is always in hazard of en- 
gendering profligacy. 

Hence it has been, generally, the opinion of wise 
men in all ages, that there is a certain middle con- 
dition of life, equally remote from either of those ex- 
tremes of fortune, which, though it wants not also its 
own dangers, yet is, on the whole, the state most fa- 
vourable both to virtue and to happiness. For there, 
luxury and pride on the one hand, have not opportu- 
nity to enervate or intoxicate the mind, nor want and 
dependence on the other, to sink and debase itj there, 
all the native affections of the soul have the freest and 
fairest exercise, the equality of men is felt, friendships 
are formed, and improvements of every sort are pur- 
sued with most success ; there, men are prompted to 
industry without being overcome by toil, and their 
powers called forth into exertion, without being either 
' -uperseded by too much abundance, or baffled bv insu- 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 171 

perable difficulties; there, a mixture of comforts and 
of nee awakens their gratitude to God, and 

reminds them of their dependence on his aid; and 
therefore, in this state, men seem to enjoy life to most 
advantage, and to be least exposed to the snares of 
vice. 

From what has been said, we learn the importance 
of attending, with the utmost care, to the choice which 
we make of our employment and condition in life. It 
has been shown, that our external situation frequently 
operates powerfully on our moral character; and by 
consequence that it is strictly connected, not only with 
our temporal welfare, but with our everlasting happi- 
ness or misery. He who might have passed unblamed, 
and upright, through certain walks of life, by unhap 
pily choosing a road where he meets with temptations 
too strong for his virtue, precipitates himself into 
shame here, and into endless ruin hereafter. Yet how 
often is the determination of this most important arti- 
cle left to the chance of accidental connexions, or sub- 
mitted to the option of youthful fancy and humour! 
When it is made the subject of serious deliberation, 
how seldom have they, on whom the decision of it de- 
pends, any further view than so to dispose of one who is 
coming out into life, as that he may the soonest become 
rich, or, as it is expressed, make his way to most ad- 
vantage in the world ! Are there no other objects than 
this to be attended to, in fixing the plan of life ? 
Are there not sacred and important interests which 
deserve to be consulted? — We would not willingly 
place one whose welfare we studied, in a situation for 
which we were convinced that his abilities were un- 
equal. These, therefore, we examine with care ; and 
on them we rest the ground of our decision. It is<> 



I 72 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

however, certain, that not abilities merely, but the 
turn of the temper and the heart, require to be ex- 
amined with equal attention, in forming the plan 
of future establishment. Every one has some peculiar 
weakness, some predominant passion, which exposes 
him to temptations of one kind more than of another. 
Early this may be discerned to shoot ; and from its first 
risings its future growth may be inferred. Anticipate 
its progress. Consider how it is likely to be affected, 
by succeeding occurences in life. If we bring one 
whom we are rearing up, into a situation, where all 
the surrounding circumstances shall cherish and mature 
this fatal principle in his nature, we become, in a great 
measure, answerable for the consequences that follow. 
In vain we trust to his abilities and powers. Vice and 
corruption, when they have tainted the heart, are 
sufficient to overset the greatest abilities. Nay, too 
frequently they turn them against the possessor ; and 
render them the instruments of his more speedy ruin. 

BLAIR. 
SECTION V. 

y~o life pleasing to God, that is not useful. to man. An 

eastern narrative. 

It pleased our mighty sovereign Abbas Carascan, 
from whom the kings of the earth derive honour and 
dominion, to set Mirza his servant over the province of 
Tauris. In the hand of Mirza, the balance of distri- 
bution was suspended with impartiality ; and under 
his administration the weak were protected, the learned 
received honour, and the diligent became rich : Mirza, 
therefore, was beheld by every eye with complacency. 



CAafc 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 1 73 

and every tongue pronounced blessings upon his head. 
But it was observed that he derived no joy from the 
benefits which he diffused; he became pensive and 
melancholy ; he spent his leisure in solitude ; in his 
palace he sat motionless upon a sofa ; and when he went 
out, his walk was slow, and his eyes were fixed upon 
the ground: he applied to the business of state with 
reluctance ; and resolved to relinquish the toil of 
government, of which he could no longer enjoy the 

reward. 

He, therefore, obtained permission to approach the 
throne of our sovereign : and being asked what was 
his request, he made this reply : " May the Lord of the 
world forgive the slave whom he has honoured, if 
Mirza presume again to lay the bounty of Abbas at his 
feet. Thou hast given me the dominion of a country, 
fruitful as the gardens of Damascus ; and a city glo- 
rious above all others, except that only which reflects 
the splendour of thy presence. But the longest life is 
a period scarcely sufficient to prepare for death. All 
other business is vain and trivial, as the toil of emmets 
in the path of the traveller, under whose foot they 
perish for ever: and all enjoyment is unsubstantial 
and evanescent, as the colours of the bow that appears 
in the interval of a storm. Suffer me, therefore, to 
prepare for the approach of eternity ; let me give up 
my soul to meditation ; let solitude and silence ac- 
quaint me with the mysteries of devotion ; let me for- 
get the world, and by the world be forgotten, till the 
moment arrives in which the veil of eternity shall fall, 
and I shall be found at the bar of the Almighty." 
Mirza then bowed himself to the earth, and stood 
silent, 

p 2 



1T4 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

By the command of Abbas it is recorded, that at 
these words he trembled upon the throne, at the foot- 
stool of which the world pays homage; he looked 
round upon his nobles ; but every countenance was 
pale, and every eye was upon the earth. No man 
opened his mouth ; and the king first broke silence, 
after it had continued near an hour. 

" Mirza, terror and doubt are come upon me, I am 
alarmed as a man who suddenly perceives that he is 
near the brink of a precipice, and is urged forward by 
an irresistible force : but yet I know not whether my 
danger is a reality or a dream. I am as thou art, a 
reptile of the earth : my life is a moment, and eternity, 
in which days, and years, and ages, are nothing, eter- 
nity is before me, for which I also should prepare : but 
by whom then must the faithful be governed ? By those 
only, who have no fear of judgment? by those 
only, whose life is brutal, because like brutes they do 
not consider that they shall die ? Or who, indeed, are 
the faithful? Are the busy multitudes that crowd the 
city, in a state of perdition ? and is the cell of the 
Dervise alone the gate of paradise ? To all, the life of 
a Dervise is not possible : to all, therefore, it cannot 
be a duty. Depart to the house which has in this city 
been prepared for thy residence : I will meditate the 
reason of thy request ; and may he who illuminates 
the mind of the humble, enable me to determine with 
wisdom." 

Mirza departed ; and on the third day, having re- 
ceived no command, he again requested an audience, 
and it was granted. When he entered the royal pre- 
sence, his countenance appeared more cheerful; he 
drew a letter from his bosom, and having kissed it, he 
presented it with his right hand. " My Lord !" said 



Chap 8. Promiscuous Pieces* 175 

he, " I have learned by this letter, which I received 
from Cosrou the Iman, who stands now before thee, in 
what manner life may be best improved. I am enabled 
to look back with pleasure, and forward with hope ; 
and I shall now rejoice still to be the shadow of thy 
power at Tauris, and to keep those honours which I so 
lately wished to resign." The king, who had listened 
to Mirza with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, im- 
mediately gave the letter to Cosrou, and commanded 
that it should be read. The eyes of the court were at 
once turned upon the hoary sage, whose countenance 
was suffused with an honest blush ; and it was not with- 
out some hesitation that he read these words. 

" To Mirza, whom the wisdom of Abbas our 
mighty lord has honoured with dominion, be perpe- 
tual health! When I heard thy purpose to withdraw 
the blessings of thy government from the thousands of 
Tauris, my heart was wounded with the arrow of af- 
fliction, and my eyes became dim with sorrow. But 
who shall speak before the king when he is troubled ; 
and who shall boast of knowledge, when he is distressed 
by doubt? To thee will I relate the events of my youth, 
which thou hast renewed before me ; and those truths 
which they taught me, may the prophet multiply to 
thee ! 

Under the instruction of the physician Aluzar, I ob- 
tained an early knowledge of his art. To those who 
were smitten with disease, I could administer plants, 
which the sun has impregnated with the spirit of health. 
But the scenes of pain, languor, and mortality, which 
were perpetually rising before me, made me often 
tremble for myself. I saw the grave open at my feet ; 
I determined therefore, to contemplate only the re- 
gions beyond it, and to despise every acquisition which 



176 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

I could not keep. I conceived an opinion, that as 
there was no merit but in voluntary poverty, and silent 
meditation, those who desired money were not proper 
objects of bounty ; and that by all who were proper 
objects of bounty, money was despised. I, therefore, 
buried mine in the earth; and renouncing society, I 
wandered into a wild and sequestered part of the 
country. My dwelling was a cave by the side of a 
hill. I drank the running water from the spring, and 
eat such fruits and herbs as I could find. To increase 
the austerity of my life, I frequently watched all night, 
sitting at the entrance of the cave with my face to the 
east, resigning myself to the secret influences of the 
Prophet. One morning after my nocturnaLvigil, just 
as I perceived the horizon glow at the approach of the 
sun, the power of sleep became irresistible, and I sunk 
under it. I imagined myself still sitting at the entrance 
of my cell \ that the dawn increased ; and that as I 
looked earnestly for the first beam of day, a dark spot 
appeared to intercept it. I perceived that it was in 
motion ; it increased in size as it drew near, and at 
length I discovered it to be an eagle. I still kept my 
eye, fixed steadfastly upon it, and saw it alight at a 
small distance, where I now descried a fox whose two 
fore-legs appeared to be broken. Before this fox 
the eagle laid part of a kid, which she had brought in 
her talons, and then disappeared. When I awaked, I 
laid my forehead upon the ground, and blessed the 
Prophet for the instruction of the morning. I reviewed 
my dream, and said thus to myself, Cosrou, thou hast 
done well to renounce the tumult, the business, and 
vanities of life: but thou hast as yet only aone it in 
part ; thou art still every day busied in the search of 
food ; thy mind is not wholly at rest ; neither is thy 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 177 

trust in Providence complete. What art thou taught 
by this vision ? If thou hast seen an eagle commissioned 
by Heaven to feed a fox that is lame, shall not the 
hand of Heaven also supply thee with food, when that 
' which prevents thee from procuring it for thyself, is 
not necessity, but devotion ?-— I was now so confident of 
a miraculous supply, that I neglected to walk out for 
my repast, which, after the first day, I expected with 
an impatience that left me little power of attending 
to any other object. This impatience, however, I la- 
boured to suppress, and persisted in my resolution : but 
my eyes at length began to fail me, and my knees 
smote each other ; I threw myself backward, and hoped 
my weakness would soon increase to insensibility. But 
I was suddenly roused by the voice of an invisible 
being, who pronounced these words : ' Cosrou, I am 
the aggel, who, by the command of the Almighty, 
hav^-egistered the thoughts of thy heart, which I am 
now commissioned to reprove. While thou wast at- 
tempting to become wise above that which is revealed, 
thy folly has perverted the instruction which was 
vouchsafed thee. Art thou disabled as the fox? hast 
thou not rather the powers of the eagle . ? Arise, let 
the eagle be the object of thy emulation. To pain 
and sickness, be thou again the messenger of ease and 
health. Virtue is not rest, but action. If thou dost 
good to man as an evidence of thy love to God, thy 
virtue will be exalted from moral to divine ; and that 
happiness which is the pledge of paradise, will be thy 
reward upon earth." 

" At these words I was not less astonished than if a 
mountain had been overturned at my feet. I humbled 
myself in the dust; I returned to the city; I dug up 
my treasure ; I was liberal, yet I became rich. M\ r 



178 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

skill in restoring health to the body, gave me frequent 
opportunities of curing the diseases of the soul. I grew 
eminent beyond my merit; and it was the pleasure of 
the king that I should stand before him. Now, there- 
fore, be not offended; I boast of no knowledge that I 
have not received. As the sands of the desert drink 
up the drops of rain, or the dew of the morning, so do 
I also, who am but dust, imbibe the instructions of the 
Prophet. Believe then that it is he who tells thee, all 
knowledge is profane, which terminates in thyself; 
and by a life w T asted in speculation, little even of this 
can be gained. When the gates of paradise are thrown 
open before thee, thy mind shall be irradiated in a mo- 
ment. Here, thou canst do little more than pile error 
upon error: there, thou shalt build truth upon truth. 
Wait, therefore, for the glorious vision ; and in the 
mean time emulate the eagle. Much is in thy power; 
and, therefore, much is expected of thee. Though the 
Almighty only can give virtue, yet, as a prince, thou 
mayst stimulate those to beneficence, who act from no 
higher motive than immediate interest: thou canst not 
produce the principle, but mayst enforce the practice. 
Let thy virtue be thus diffused ; and if thou believest 
w r ith reverence, thou shalt be accepted above. Fare- j 
well! May the smile of Him who resides in the hea- 
ven of heavens be upon thee; and against thy name, 
in the volume of His will, may happiness be written!"! 
The king, whose doubts, like those of Mirza, were! 
now removed, looked up with a smile that communi-l 
cated the joy of his mind. He dismissed the prince to| 
his government; and commanded these events to b( 
recorded, to the end that posterity may know, u that 
no life is pleasing to God, but that which is useful t( 
mankind." hawkesworth. 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous PWces. 179 

SECTION VI. 

Character of the Great Founder of Christianity, 

Never was there on earth any person of so extraor- 
dinary a character as the Founder of our religion. In 
him we uniformly see a mildness, dignity, and com- 
posure, and a perfection of wisdom and of goodness, 
that plainly point him out as a superior being. But 
his superiority was all in his own divine mind. He 
had none of those outward advantages that have dis- 
tinguished all other lawgivers. He had no influence 
in the state ; he had no wealth ; he aimed at no worldly 
power. He was the son of a carpenter's wife, and he 
was himself a carpenter. So poor were his reputed 
parents, that at the time of his birth his mother could 
obtain no better lodging than a stable ; and so poor was 
he himself, that he often had no lodging at all. That 
he had no advantages of education, we may infer from 
the surprise expressed by his neighbours on hearing 
him speak in the synagogue: " Whence hath this man 
these things ? What wisdom is this which is given him? 
Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary ? Are not 
his brethren and sisters with us ?" This point, however, 
we need not insist on; as from no education, that his 
own or any other country could have afforded, was it 
possible for him to derive that supernatural wisdom 
and power, that sanctity of life, and that purity of doc- 
trine, which so eminently distinguish him. His first 
adherents were a few fishermen; for whom he was 
so far from making any provision, that, when he sent 
them out to preach repentance and heal diseases, they 
were, by his desire, furnished with nothing, but one 
coat, a pair of sandals, and a staff. He went about, in 
great humility and meekness, doing good, teaching 



180 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

wisdom, and glorifying God, for the space of about 
three years after the commencement of his ministry ; 
and then, as he himself had foreseen and foretold, he 
was publicly crucified. — This is the great personage, 
who at this day gives law to the world. This is he, 
who has been the author of virtue and happiness to 
millions and millions of the human race. And this is he 
whom the wisest and best men that ever lived have 
reverenced as a Divine Person, and gloried in as the 
deliverer and saviour of mankind. dr. beattie* 

SECTION VII. 

'The spirit and laws of Christianitij superior to those of 

emery other religion* 

The morality of the gospel gives it an infinite supe- 
riority over all systems of doctrine that ever were devised 
by man. Were our lives and opinions to be regulated 
as it prescribes, nothing would be wanting to make us 
happy: there would be no injustice, no impiety, no 
disorderly passions. Harmony and love would uni- 
versally prevail. Every man, content with his lot, 
resigned to the Divine will, and fully persuaded that a 
happy eternity is before him, would pass his days in 
tranquillity and joy, to which neither anxiety, nor pain, 
nor even the fear of death, could ever give any inter- 
ruption. The best systems of Pagan ethics are very 
imperfect, and not free from absurdity; and in them 
are recommended modes of thinking unsuitable to hu- 
man nature, and modes of conduct which, though they 
might have been useful in a political view, did not tend 
to virtue and happiness universal. But of all our Lord s 
institutions the object is, to promote the happiness, 
by promoting the virtue, of all mankind. 



Chap* &. Promiscuous Pieces. 181 

In the next place ; his peculiar doctrines are not 
like any thing of human contrivance. " Never man 
spake like this man." One of the first names given to 
that dispensation of things which he came to introduce, 
was the kingdom, or the reign, of heaven. It was 
justly so called ; being thus distinguished, not only from 
the religion of Moses, the sanctions whereof related to 
the present life, but also from every human scheme of 
moral, political, or ecclesiastical legislation. 

The views of the heathen moralist extended not 
beyond this world ; those of the Christian are fixed on 
that which is to come. The former was concerned for 
his own country only or chiefly ; the latter takes con- 
cern in the happiness of all men, of all nations, con- 
ditions, and capacities. A few, and but a few, of the 
ancient philosophers, spoke of a future state of retri- 
bution as a thing desirable, and not improbable : reve- 
lation speaks of it as certain ; and of the present life as 
a state of trial, wherein virtue or holiness is necessary, 
not only to entitle us to that salvation which, through 
the mercy of God and the merits of his Son, Christians 
are taught to look for, but also to prepare us, by habits 
of piety and benevolence, for a reward, which none 
but the pure in heart can receive, or could relish. 

The duties of piety, as far as the heart is concerned 
were not much attended to by the heathen lawgivers. 
Cicero coldly ranks them with the social virtues, and 
says very little about them. The sacrifices were mere 
ceremony. And what the Stoics taught of resignation 
to the will of heaven, or to the decrees of fate, was so 
repugnant to some of their other tenets, that little good 
could be expected from it. But of every Christian 
virtue, piety is an essential part. The love and the fear 
m God must every moment prevail in the heart of a 



x82 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

follower of Jesus ; and whether he eat or drink, or 
whatever he do, it must all be to the glory of the 
Creator. How different this from the philosophy of 
Greece and Rome ! 

In a word, the heathen morality, even in its best 
form, that is, as two or three of their best philosophers 
taught it, amounts to little more than this : " Be useful 
to yourselves, your friends, and your country ; so shall 
you be respectable while you live, and honoured when 
you die ; and it is to be hoped you may receive a reward 
in another life." The language of the Christian law- 
giver is different. " The world is not worthy of the 
ambition of an immortal being. Its honours and plea- 
sures have a tendency to debase the mind, and dis- 
qualify it for future happiness. Set therefore your 
affections on things above, and not on things on the 
earth. Let it be your supreme desire to obtain the 
favour of God; and, by a course of discipline, prepare 
yourselves for a re- admission into that rank which was 
forfeited by the fall ; and for being again but a little 
lower than the angels, and crowned with glory and 
honour everlasting." 

What an elevation must it give to our pious affec- 
tions, to contemplate the Supreme Being and his 
Providence, as revealed to us in Scripture ! We are 
vhere taught, that man was created in the image of 
God, innocent and happy: and that he had no sooner 
fallen into sin, than his Creator, instead of abandoning 
him, and his offspring, to the natural consequences of 
his disobedience, and of their hereditary depravity, 
was pleased to begin a wonderful dispensation of grace, 
in order to rescue from perdition, and raise again to 
happiness, as many as should acquiesce in the terms of 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 183 

the offered salvation, and regulate their lives accord 
ingly. 

By the sacred books, that contain the history of this 
dispensation, we are further taught, that God is a spirit, 
unchangeable, and eternal, universally present, and ab- 
solutely perfect ; that it is our duty to fear him, as a 
being of consummate purity and inflexible justice, and 
to love him as the Father of Mercies, and the God of 
all consolation: to trust in him as the friend, the 
comforter, and the almighty guardian of all who believe 
and obey him ; to rejoice in him as the best of Beings, 
and adore him as the greatest. — We are taught, that 
he will make allowance for the frailties of our nature, 
and pardon the sins of those who repent: — and, that 
we may see, in the strongest light, his peculiar benig- 
nity to the human race, we are taught, that he gave 
his only Son as our ransom and deliverer ; and we are 
not only permitted, but commanded, to pray to him, 
and address him as our Father : — we are taught, 
moreover, that the evils incident to this state of trial 
are permitted by him, in order to exercise our virtue, 
and prepare us for a future state of never-ending 
felicity; and that these momentary afflictions are 
pledges of his paternal love, and shall, if we receive 
them as such, and venerate Him accordingly, work out 
for us u an exceeding great and eternal weight of glory." 
If these hopes and these sentiments contribute more to 
our happiness, and to the purification of our nature, 
than any thing else in the world can do, surely that 
religion to which alone we owe these sentiments and 
hopes, must be the greatest blessing that ever was 
conferred on the posterity of Adam. 

Christianity proposes to our imitation the highest 
examples of benevolence, purity, and piety. It shows, 



184 Sequel to the English Reader* Part I. 

that all our actions, purposes, and thoughts, are to us of 
infinite importance; their consequences being nothing 
less than happiness or misery in the life to come : and 
thus it operates most powerfully on our self-love. By 
teaching, that all mankind are brethren; by com- 
manding us to love our neighbour as ourselves ; and 
by declaring every man our neighbour, to whom we 
have it in our power to do good, it improves bene- 
volence to the highest pitch. By prohibiting revenge, 
malice, pride, vanity, envy, sensuality, and covetousness; 
and by requiring us to forgive, to pray for, and to bless 
our enemies, and to do to others as we would that they 
should do to us, it lays a restraint on every malevolent 
and turbulent passion; and reduces the whole of social 
virtue to two or three precepts ; so brief, that they 
cannot be forgotten; so plain, that they cannot be 
misunderstood ; so reasonable that no man of sense 
controverts them ; and so well suited to human nature 
and human affairs, that every candid mind may easily, 
and on all occasions, apply them to practice. 

Christianity recommends the strictest self-attention, 
by this awful consideration, that God is continually 
present with us, knows what we think, as well as what 
we do, and will judge the world in righteousness, and 
render unto every man according to his works. It 
makes u° consider conscience, as his voice and law 
within us; purity of heart, as that which alone can 
qualify us for the enjoyment of future reward; and 
mutual love, or charity, as that without which all other 
virtues and accomplishments are of no value : and, by 
a view of things peculiarly striking, it causes vice- to 
appear a most pernicious and abominable thing, which 
cannot escape punishment. In a word, a Christianity," 
as bishop Taylor well observes, " is a doctrine in 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 185 

which nothing is superfluous or burdensome ; and in 
which there is nothing wanting, which can procure 
happiness to mankind, or by which God can be 
glorified." dr. beattie. 

SECTION VIII. 

The vision of Carazan : Or, social love and beneficence 

recommended. 

Carazan, the merchant of Bagdat, was eminent 
throughout all the east for his avarice and his wealth ; 
his origin is obscure, as that of the spark which by the 
collision of steel and adamant is struck out of darkness; 
and the patient labour of persevering diligence alone 
had made him rich. It was remembered, that when 
he was indigent he was thought to be generous ; and 
he was still acknowledged to be inflexibly just. But 
whether in his dealings with men, he discovered a 
perfidy which tempted him to put his trust in gold, or 
whether in proportion as he accumulated wealth, he 
discovered his own importance to increase, Carazan 
prized it more as he used it less : he gradually lost the 
inclination to do good, as he acquired the power; and 
as the hand of time scattered snow upon his head, the 
freezing influence extended to his bosom. 

But though the door of Carazan was never opened 
by hospitality, nor his hand by compassion, yet fear 
led him constantly to the mosque at the stated hours of 
prayer: he performed all the rites of devotion with the 
most scrupulous punctuality, and had thrice paid his 
vows at the temple of the prophet. That devotion 
which arises from the love of God, and necessarily i^ 
eludes the love of man, as it connects gratitude with 



1.86 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

beneficence, and exalts that which was moral to divine t 
confers new dignity upon goodness, and is the object 
not only of affection but reverence. On the contrary , 
the devotion of the selfish, whether it be thought to 
avert the punishment which every one wishes to be in- 
flicted, or to insure it by the complication of hypocrisy 
with guilt, never fails to excite indignation and ab- 
horrence. Carazan, therefore, when he had locked 
his door, and turning round with a look of circum- 
spective suspicion, proceeded to the mosque, was fol- 
lowed by every eye with silent malignity; the poor 
suspended their supplication, when he passed by ; 
though he was known by every man, yet no man sa- 
luted him. 

Such had long been the life of Carazan, and such 
was the character which he had acquired, when notice 
was given by proclamation, that he was removed to a 
magnificent building in the centre of the city, that his 
table should be spread for the public, and that the 
stranger should be welcome to his bed. The multitude 
soon rushed like a torrent to his door, where they be- 
held him distributing bread to the hungry, and apparel 
to the naked, his eye softened with compassion, and 
his cheek glowing with delight. Every one gazed 
with astonishment at the prodigy ; and the murmur of 
innumerable voices increasing like the sound of ap- 
proaching thunder, Carazan beckoned with his hand : 
attention suspended the tumult in a moment : and he 
thus gratified the curiosity which procured him audi- 
ence. 

To him who touches the mountains and they smoke, 
the Almighty and the most merciiul, be everlasting 
honour! he has ordained sleep to be the minister oi in- 
struction, and his visions have reproved me in the 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 187 

night. As I was sitting alone in my haram, with my 
lamp burning before me, computing the product of my 
merchandize, and exulting in the increase of my wealth, 
I fell into a deep sleeep, and the hand of him who 
dwells in the third heaven was upon me. I beheld 
the angel of death coming forward like a whirlwind, 
and he smote me before I could deprecate the blow* At 
the same moment I felt myself lifted from the ground, 
and transported with astonishing rapidity through the 
regions of the air. The earth was contracted to an 
atom beneath j and the stars glowed round me with 
a lustre that obscured the sun. The gate of Paradise 
was now in sight j and I was intercepted by a sudden 
'^qrhtness which no human eye could behold. The 
irrevocable sentence was now to be pronounced ; my 
day of probation was past ; and from the evil of my life 
nothing could be taken away, nor could any thing be 
added to the good. When I reflected that my lot for 
eternity was cast, which not all the powers of nature 
could reverse, my confidence totally forsook me ; and 
while I stood trembling and silent, covered with confu- 
sion and chilled with horror, I was thus addressed by 
the radiance that flamed before me. 

" Carazan, thy worship has not been accepted, be- 
cause it was not prompted by love of Godj neither 
can thy righteousness be rewarded, because it was not 
produced by love of man ; for thy own sake only, hast 
thou rendered to every man his due ; and thou hast 
approached the Almighty only for thyself. Thou hast 
not looked up with gratitude, nor around thee with 
kindness. Around thee, thou hast indeed beheld vice 
and toily; but if vice and folly could justify thy par- 
simony, would they not condemn the bounty of Hea- 
ven i If not upon the foolish and the vicious, where 



188 Sequel to the English Reader* Part i. 

shall the sun diffuse his light, or the clouds distil their 
dew ? Where shall the lips of the spring breathe fra- 
grance, or the hand of autumn diffuse plenty: Re- 
member, Carazan, that thou hast shut compassion from 
thy heart, and grasped thy treasures with a hand of 
iron j thou hast lived for thyself; and, therefore, 
henceforth forever thou shalt subsist alone. From the 
light of heaven, and from the society of all beings, 
shalt thou be driven ; solitude shall protract the linger- 
ing hours of eternity, and darkness aggravate the 
horrors of despair." 

At this moment I was driven by some secret and ir- 
resistible power, through the glowing system of crea- 
tion, and passed innumerable worlds in a moment. As 
I approached the verge of nature, I perceived the sha- 
dows of total and boundless vacuity deepen before me, 
a dreadful region of eternal silence, solitude, and dark- 
ness ! Unutterable horror seized me at the prospect, 
and this exclamation burst from me with all the vehe- 
mence of desire: " O! that I had been doomed for 
ever to the common receptacle of impenitence and 
guilt! Their society would have alleviated the torment 
of despair, and the rage of fire could not have ex- 
cluded the comfort of light. Or, if I had been con- 
demned to reside in a comet, that would return but 
once in a thousand years to the regions of light and 
life ; the hope of these periods, however distant, would 
cheer me in the dread interval of cold and darkness, 
and the vicissitude would divide eternity into time. 
While this thought passed over my mind, I lost sight 
of the remotest star, and the last glimmering of light 
was quenched in utter darkness. The agonies of de- 
spair every moment increased, as every moment aug- 
mented my distance from the last habitable world. I 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 189 

reflected with intolerable anguish, that when ten thou- 
sand thousand years had carried me beyond the reach 
of all but that Power who fills infinitude, I should still 
look forward into an immense abyss of darkness, 
through which I should still drive without succour and 
without society, farther and farther still, for ever and 
for ever. I then stretched out my hands towards the 
regions of existence, with an emotion that awaked 
me. — Thus have I been taught to estimate society, like 
every other blessing, by its loss. My heart is warmed to 
liberality ; and I am zealous to communicate the hap- 
piness which I feel, to those from whom it is derived ; 
for the society of one wretch, whom in the pride of 
prosperity I would have spurned from my door, would, 
in the dreadful solitude to which I was condemned, 
have been more highly prized, than the gold of Afric, 
or the gems of Golconda. 

At this reflection upon his dream, Carazan became 
suddenly silent, and looked upwards in ecstacy of grati- 
tude and devotion. The multitude were struck at once 
with the precept and example ; and the caliph, to whom 
*;he event was related, that he might be liberal beyond 
;he power of gold, commanded it to be recorded for 
he benefit of posterity. ha w-kes worth. 

section IX. 

Creation the product of Divine Goodness. 

Creation is a display of Supreme goodness, no less 

than of wisdom and power. It is the communication 

numberless benefits, together with existence, to all 

riio live. Justly is the earth said to be, " full of the 

;oodness of the Lord." Throughout the whole system 



190 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

of things, we behold a manifest tendency to promote 
the benefit either of the rational, or the animal crea- 
tion. In some parts of nature, this tendency may be 
less obvious than in others. Objects, which to us seem 
useless, or hurtful, may sometimes occur; and strange 
it were, if in so vast and complicated a system, difficul- 
ties of this kind should not occasionally present them- 
selves to beings, whose views are so narrow and limited 
as ours. It is well known, that in proportion as the 
knowledge of nature has increased among men, these 
difficulties have diminished. Satisfactory accounts have 
been given of many perplexing appearances. Useful 
and proper purposes have been found to be promoted, 
by objects which were, at first, thought unprofitable 
©r noxious. 

Malignant must be the mind of that person ; with a 
distorted eye he must have contemplated creation, who 
can suspect, that it is not the production of Infinite Be- 
nignity and Goodness. How many clear marks of be- 
nevolent intention appear, every where around us! 
What a profusion of beauty and ornament is poured 
forth on the face of nature ! What a magnificent spec- 
tacle presented to the view of man ! What a supply con- 
trived for his wants! What a variety of objects set 
before him, to gratify his senses, to employ his under-l 
standing, to entertain his imagination, to cheer andj 
gladden his heart! Indeed, the very existence of thej 
universe is a standing memorial of the goodness of thf 
Creator. For nothing except goodness could originall} 
prompt creation. The Supreme Being, self-existent 
and all-sufficient, had no wants which he could seek t( 
supply. No new accession of felicity or glory was to rej 
suit to him, from creatures which he made. It was goodj 
ness communicating and pouring itself forth, goodnesj 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 191 

delighting to impart happiness in all its forms, which in 
the beginning created the heaven and the earth. 
Hence, those innumerable orders of living creatures 
with which the earth is peopled; from the lowest class 
of sensitive being, to the highest rank of reason and in- 
telligence. Wherever there is life there is some de- 
gree of happiness ; there are enjoyments suited to the 
different powers of feeling; and earth, and air, and 
water, are, with magnificent liberality, made to teem 
with life. 

Let those striking displays of Creating Goodness call 
forth, on our part, responsive love, gratitude, and ve- 
neration. To this great Father of all existence and 
life, to Him who hath raised us up to behold the light 
of day, and to enjoy all the comforts which his world 
presents, let our hearts send forth a perpetual hymn of 
praise. Evening and morning let us celebrate Him, 
who maketh the morning and the evening to rejoice 
over our heads ; who " openeth his hand, and satisfieth 
the desire of every living thing." Let us rejoice, that we 
are brought into a world, which is the production of Infi- 
nite Goodness ; and over which a Supreme Intelligence 
presides. Convinced that he hateth not the works 
which he hath made, nor hath brought creatures into 
existence, merely to suffer unnecessary pain, let us, 
even in the midst of sorrow, receive with calm sub- 
mission, whatever he is pleased to send ; thankful for 
what he bestows ; and satisfied, that, without good 
reason, he takes nothing away. 

It is not in the tremendous appearances of power 
merely, that a good and well-instructed man beholds 
the Creator of the world. In the constant and regu- 
lar working of his hands, in the silent operations of 
his wisdom and goodness, ever going on throughout 



192 Sequel to the English Reader. Parti. 

nature, he delights to contemplate and adore him. 
This is one of the chief fruits to be derived from that 
more perfect knowledge of the Creator, which is im- 
parted to us by the Christian revelation. Impressing 
our minds with a just sense of all his attributes, as not 
wise and great only, but as gracious and merciful, let 
it lead us to view every object of calm and undisturbed 
nature, with a perpetual reference to its Author. We 
shall then behold all the scenes which the heavens and 
the earth present, with more refined feelings, and subli- 
mer emotions, than they who regard them solely as ob- 
jects of curiosity, or amusement. Nature will appear 
animated, and enlivened, by the presence of its Author. 
When the sun rises or sets in the heavens ; when spring 
paints the earth, when summer shines in its glory, when 
autumn pours forth its fruits, or winter returns in its 
awful forms, we shall view the Creator manifesting 
himself in his works. We shall meet his presence in 
the fields. We shall feel his influence in the cheering 
beam. We shall hear his voice in the wind. We shall 
behold ourselves every where surrounded with the 
glory of that universal spirit, who fills, pervades, and 
upholds all. We shall live in the world as in a great 
and august temple; where the presence of the Di- 
vinity, who inhabits it, inspires devotion. blair. 

SECTION X. 

The benefits of religious retirement. 

An entire retreat from worldly affairs, is not what 
religion requires ; nor does it even enjoin a great re- 
treat from them. Some stations of life would not per- 
mit this ; and there are few stations which render it 



Chap 8. Promiscuous Pieces* t»* 

necessary. The chief field, both of the duty and of 
the improvement of man, lies in active life. By the 
graces and virtues which he exercises amidst his fellow- 
creatures, he is trained up for heaven. A total retreat 
from the world, is so far from being the perfection of 
religion, that, some particular cases excepted, it is no 
other than the abuse of it. 

But, though entire retreat would lay us aside from 
the part from which Providence chiefly intended us, It 
is certain, that, without occasional retirement, we 
must act that part very ill. There will be neither 
consistency in the conduct, nor dignity in the charac- 
ter, of one who sets apart no share of his time for me- 
ditation and reflection. In the heat and bustle of life, 
while passion is every moment throwing false colours 
on the objects around us, nothing can be viewed in a 
just light. If we wish that reason should exert her na- 
tive power, we must step aside from the crowd, into the 
cool and silent shade. It is there that, with sober and 
steady eye, she examines what is good or ill, what is 
wise or foolish, in human conduct; she looks back on 
the past, she looks forward to the future ; and forms 
plans, not for the present moment only, but for the whole 
of life. How should that man discharge any part of his 
duty aright, who never suffers his passions to cool ? 
and how should his passions cool, who is engaged, 
without interruption, in the tumult . of the world? 
This incessant stir may be called, the perpetual drunk- 
enness of life. It raises that eager fermentation of 
spirit, which will be ever sending forth the dangerous 
fumes of rashness and folly. Whereas he who mingles 
religious retreat with worldly affairs, remains calm, 
and master of himself. Pie is not whirled round, and 
rendered giddy, by the agitation of the world; but, 



194 Sequel to the English Reader* Part I. 

from that sacred retirement, in which he has been con- 
versant among higher objects, comes forth into the 
world with manly tranquillity, fortified by the prin- 
ciples which he has formed, and prepared for whatever 
may befall. 

As he who is unacquainted with retreat, cannot sus- 
tain any character with propriety, so neither can he 
enjoy the world with any advantage. Of the two 
classes of men who are most apt to be negligent of this 
duty, the men of pleasure, and the men of business, it is 
hard to say which suffer most, in point of enjoyment, 
from that neglect. To the former, every moment ap- 
pears to be lost, which partakes not of the vivacity of 
amusement. To connect one plan of gaiety with ano- 
ther, is their whole study ; till, in a very short time, 
nothing remains but to tread the same beaten round ; to 
enjoy what they have already enjoyed, and to see what 
they have often seen. Pleasures thus drawn to the 
dregs, become vapid and tasteless. What might have 
pleased long, if enjoyed with temperance, and mingled 
with retirement, being devoured with such eager haste, 
speedily surfeits and disgusts. Hence, these are the 
persons, who, after having run through a rapid course 
of pleasure, after having glittered for a few years in the 
foremost line of public amusements, are the most apt 
to fly at last to a melancholy retreat ; not led by reli- 
gion or reason, but driven by disappointed hopes and 
exhausted spirits, to the pensive conclusion, that '* all is 
vanity." 

If uninterrupted intercourse with the world wears 
out the man of pleasure, it no less oppresses the man 
of business and ambition. The strongest spirits must at 
length sink under it. The happiest temper must be 
soured by incessant returns of the opposition, the in- 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 195 

constancy, and treachery of men. For he who lives 
always in the hustle of the world, lives in a perpetual 
warfare. Here, an enemy encounters ; there, a rival 
supplants him. The ingratitude of a friend stings him 
this hour ; and the pride of a superior wounds him the 
next. In vain he flies for relief to trifling amusements. 
These may afford a temporary opiate to care ; but they 
communicate no strength to the mind. On the con- 
trary, they leave it more soft and defenceless, when 
molestations and injuries renew their attack. 

Let him who wishes for an effectual cure to all the 
wounds which the world can inflict, retire from inter- 
course with men to intercourse with his Creator, 
When he enters into his closet, and shuts the door, let 
him shut out, at the same time, all intrusion of worldly 
care ; and dwell among objects divine and immortal.— 
Those fair prospects of order and peace, shall there 
open to his view, which form the most perfect contrast 
to the confusion and misery of this earth. The celestial 
inhabitants quarrel not; among them there is neither 
ingratitude, nor envy, nor tumult. Men may harass 
one another ; but in the kingdom of heaven concord 
and tranquillity reign for ever. — From such objects, 
there beams upon the mind of the pious man, a pure 
and enlivening light; there is diffused over his heart, 
a holy calm. His agitated spirit reassumes its firmness, 
and regains its peace. The world sinks in its im- 
portance ; and the load of mortality and misery loses 
almost all its weight. The " green pastures" open, 
and the " still waters" flow around him, beside which 
the « l Shepherd of Israel" guides his flock. The dis- 
turbances and alarms, so formidable to those who are 
engaged in the tumults of the world, seem to him only 
like thunder roiling afar off; like the noise of distant 



/ 



196 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

waters, whose sound he hears, whose course he traces, 
but whose waves touch him not. 

As religious retirement is thus evidently conducive 
to our happiness in this life, so it is absolutely necessary 
in order to prepare us for the life to come. He who 
lives always in public, cannot live to his own soul. 
Our conversation and intercourse with the world, is, 
in several respects, an education for vice. From our 
earliest youth, we are accustomed to hear riches and 
honours extolled as the chief possessions of man; and 
proposed to us, as the principal aim of our future pur- 
suits. We are trained up, to look with admiration on 
the flattering marks of distinction which they bestow. 
In quest of those fancied blessings, we see the multi- 
tude rvrnund us eager and fervent. Principles of duty, 
We may, perhaps, hear sometimes inculcated; but we 
seldom behold them brought into competition with 
worldly profit. The soft names, and plausible colours, 
under which deceit, sensuality, and revenge, are pre- 
sented to us in common discourse, weaken, by degrees, 
our natural sense of the distinction between good and 
evil. We often meet with crimes authorized by high 
examples, and rewarded with the caresses and smiles 
of the world. Thus breathing habitually a contagious 
-air, how certain is our ruin, unless we sometimes re- 
treat from this pestilential region, and seek for proper 
correctives of the disorders which are contracted 
there! Religious retirement both abates the disease, 
and furnishes the remedy. It lessens the corrupting 
influence of the world ; and it gives opportunity for 
better principles to exert their power. Solitude 
is the hallowed ground which religion hath, in every 
age, chosen for her own. There, her inspiration is 
felt, and her secret mysteries elevate the soul; there, 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces* 197 

falls the tear of contrition ; there, rises towards 
heaven the sigh of the heart; there, melts the soul witn 
all the tenderness of devotion, and pours itself forth be- 
fore him who made, and him who redeemed it. How 
can any one who is unacquainted with such employ- 
ments of mind, be fit for heaven? If heaven be the 
habitation of pure affections, and of intellectual joy, 
can such a state be relished by him who is always im- 
mersed among sensible objects, and has never acquired 
any taste for the pleasures of the understanding, and 
the heart? 

The great and the worthy, the pious and the virtu- 
ous, have ever been addicted to serious retirement. 
It is the characteristic of little and frivolous minds, to 
be wholly occupied with the vulgar objects of life. 
These fill up their desires, and supply all the entertain- 
ment which their coarse apprehensions can relish. But 
a more refined and enlarged mind leaves the world 
behind it, feels a call for higher pleasures, and seeks 
them in retreat. The man of public spirit has re- 
course to it, in order to form plans for general good ; 
the man of genius, in order to dwell on his favourite 
themes ; the philosopher, to pursue his discoveries j 
the saint, to improve himself in grace. " Isaac went 
cut to meditate in the fields, at the evening tide." 
David, amidst all the splendour of royalty, often bears 
witness both to the pleasure which he received, and to 
the benefit which he reaped from devout meditation* 
Our blessed Saviour himself, though, of all who ever 
lived on earth, he needed least the assistance of religious 
retreat, yet, by his frequent practice, has done it signal 
honour. Often were the garden, the mountain, and. 
the silence of the night, sought by him, for intercourse 

as 



198 Sequel to the English Reader. Purt I. 

with Heaven. " When he had sent the multitude 
away, he went up into a mountain, apart, to pray." 

The world is the great deceiver, whose fallacious 
arts it highly imports us to detect. But in the midst 
of its pleasures and pursuits, the detection is impossible. 
We tread, as within an enchanted circle, where 
nothing appears as it truly is. It is only in retreat, 
that the charm can be broken. Did men employ that 
retreat, not in carrying on the delusion which the 
world has begun, not in forming plans of imaginary 
bliss, but in subjecting the happiness which the world 
affords to a strict discussion, the spell would dissolve ; 
and in the room of the unreal prospects, which had 
long amused them, the nakedness of the world would 
appear. 

Let us prepare ourselves, then, to encounter the 
light of truth; and resolve rather to bear the disap- 
pointment of some flattering hopes, than to wander for 
ever in the paradise of fools. While others meditate 
in secret on the means of attaining worldly success, let 
it be our employment to scrutinize that success itself. 
Let us calculate fairly to what it amounts; and whe- 
ther we are not losers on the whole, by our apparent 
gain. Let us look back for this purpose, on our past 
life. Let us trace it from our earliest youth ; and put 
the question to ourselves, What have been its happiest 
periods ? Were they those of quiet and innocence, or 
those of ambition and intrigue? Has our real enjoys 
ment uniformly kept pace with what the world calls 
prosperity ? As we advanced in wealth or station, did 
we proportionally advance in happiness? Has success, 
almost in any one instance, fulfilled our expectations ? 
Where we reckoned upon most enjoyment, have we 
not often found least? Wherever guilt entered info 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces y 19^ 

pleasure, did not its sting long remain, after the grati- 
fication was past? — Such questions as these, candidly 
answered, would in a great measure unmask the world. 
They would expose the vanity of its pretensions; and 
convince us, that there are other springs than those 
which the world affords, to .which we must apply for 
happiness. 

While we commune with our heart concerning what 
the world now is, let us consider also what it will one 
day appear to be. Let us anticipate the awful mo- 
ment of our bidding it an eternal farewell ; and think, 
what reflections will most probably arise, when we are 
quitting the field, and looking back on the scene of 
action. In what light will our closing eyes contem- 
plate those vanities which now shine so bright, and 
those interests which now swell into such high import- 
ance? What part shall we then wish to have acted? 
What will then appear momentous, what trifling, in 
human conduct?— -Let the sober sentiments which such 
anticipations suggest, temper now our misplaced ar- 
dour. Let the last conclusions which we shall form, 
enter into the present estimate which we make of the 
world, and of life. 

Moreover, in communing with ourselves concerning 
the world, let us contemplate it as subject to the 
Divine dominion. The greater part of men behold 
nothing more than the rotation of human affairs. 
They see a great crowd ever in motion; the fortunes 
of men alternately rising and falling ; virtue often dis- 
tressed, and prosperity appearing to be the purchase of 
worldly wisdom. But this is only the outside of things : 
behind the curtain, there is a far greater scene, which 
is beheld by none but the retired, religious spectator. 
If we lift up that curtain, when we are alone with 



200 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

God, and view the world with the eye of a Christian ; 
we shall see, that while " man's heart deviseth his way, 
it is the Lord who directeth his steps." We shall see, 
that however men appear to move and act after their 
own pleasure, they are, nevertheless, retained in secret 
bonds by the Almighty, and all their operations ren- 
dered subservient to the ends of his moral government. 
We shall behold him obliging " the wrath of man to 
praise him ;" punishing the sinner by means of his own 
iniquities ; from the trials of the righteous, bringing 
forth their reward ; and to a state of seeming universal 
confusion, preparing the wisest and most equitable 
issue. While the fashion u of this world" is passing 
fast away, we shall discern the glory of another rising 
to succeed it. We shall behold all human events, 
our griefs and our joys, our love and our hatred, our 
character and memory, absorbed in the ocean of eter- 
nity ; and no trace of our present existence left, ex- 
cept its being for ever " well with the righteous, and 
ill with the wicked." blair. 

section XI. 

History often days of Seged, emperor of Ethiopia, 



Of heav'n's protection who can be 

So confident to utter this? — 

To-morrow I will spend in bliss. r. lewis. 



Seged, lord of Ethiopia, to the inhabitants of the 
world : to the sons of presumption, humility, and fear; 
and to the daughters of sorrow, content, and acquies- 
cence. 

Thus, in the twenty-seventh year of his reign, spoke 
Seged, the monarch of forty nations, the distributer of I 



Chap* 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 201 

the waters of the Nile : " At length., Seged, thy toils 
are at an end; thou hast reconciled disaffection, thou 
hast suppressed rebellion, thou hast pacified the jea- 
lousies of thy courtiers, thou hast chased war from thy 
confines, and erected fortresses in the lands of thy ene- 
mies. All who have offended thee, tremble in thy pre- 
sence ; and wherever thy voice is heard, it is obeyed. 
Thy throne is surrounded by armies, numerous as the 
locusts of the summer, and resistless as the blasts of 
pestilence. Thy magazines are stored with ammuni- 
tion, thy treasures overflow with the tribute of con- 
quered kingdoms. Plenty waves upon thy fields, and 
opulence glitters in thy cities. Thy nod is as the earth- 
quake that shakes the mountains, and thy smile as the 
dawn of the vernal day. In thy hand is the strength 
of thousands, and thy health is the health of millions. 
Thy palace is gladdened by the song of praise, and thy 
path perfumed by the breath of benediction. Thy 
subjects gaze upon thy greatness, and think of danger 
or misery no more. Why, Seged, wilt not thou partake 
the blessings thou bestowest ? Why shouldst thou only 
forbear to rejoice in this general felicity ? Why should 
thy face be clouded with anxiety, when the meanest of 
those who call thee sovereign, gives the day to festivity, 
and the night to peace. At length, Seged, reflect and 
be wise. What is the gift of conquest but safety? 
Why are riches collected but to purchase happiness ?" 

Seged then ordered the house of pleasure, built in an 
island of the lake Dambea, to be prepared for his re- 
ception. " I will retire," says he, " for ten days from 
tumult and care, from councils and decrees. Long 
quiet is not the lot of the governors of nations, but a 
cessation of ten days cannot be denied me. This short 
interval of happiness may surely be secured from the 



2Q2 Sequel to the English Reader, Part 

interruption of fear or perplexity, sorrow or disappoint- 
ment. I will exclude all trouble from my abode, and 
remove from my thoughts whatever may confuse the 
harmony of the concert, or abate the sweetness of the 
banquet. I will fill the whole capacity of my soul with 
enjoyment, and try what it is to live without a wish 
unsatisfied." 

In a few days the orders were performed, and Seged 
hasted to the palace of Dambea, which stood in an 
island cultivated only for pleasure, planted with every 
flower that spreads its colours to the sun, and every 
shrub that sheds fragrance in the air. In one part of 
this extensive garden, were open walks for excursions 
in the morning ; in another, thick groves, and silent 
arbours, and bubbling fountains for repose at noon. 
All that could solace the sense, or flatter the fancy ; all 
that industry could extort from nature, or wealth fur- 
nish to art ; all that conquest could seize, or beneficence 
attract, was collected together, and every perception 
of delight was excited and gratified. 

Into this delicious region Seged summoned all the 
persons of his court, who seemed eminently qualified to 
receive or communicate pleasure. His call was readily 
obeyed ; the young, the fair, the vivacious, and the 
witty, were all in haste to be sated with felicity. They 
sailed jocund over the lake, which seemed to smooth 
its surface before them: their passage was cheered 
with music, and their hearts dilated with expectation. 

Seged landing here with his band of pleasure, deter- 1 
mined from that hour to break off all acquaintance with 
discontent; to give his heart for ten days to ease and 
jollity; and then to fall back to the common state ofl 
man, and suffer his life to be diversified, as before, withf 
joy and sorrow. 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 203 

He immediately entered his chamber, to consider 
where he should begin his circle of happiness. He had 
all the artists of delight before him, but knew not whom 
to call, since he could not enjoy one, but by delaying 
the performance of another ; he chose and rejected, he 
resolved and changed his resolution, till his faculties 
were harassed, and his thoughts confused j then re- 
turned to the apartment were his presence was ex- 
pected, with languid eyes, and clouded countenance, 
and spread the infection of uneasiness over the whole 
assembly. He observed their depression, and was 
offended ; for he found his vexation increased by those 
whom he expected to dissipate and relieve it. He 
retired again to his private chamber, and sought for 
consolation in his own mind ; one thought flowed in 
upon another; a long succession of images seized his 
attention; the moments crept imperceptibly away 
through the gloom of pensiveness, till, having re- 
covered his tranquillity, he lifted up his head, and saw 
the lake brightened by the setting sun. u Such," said 
Seged, sighing, " is the longest day of human exist- 
ence : before we have learned to use it, we find it at 
an end." 

The regret which he felt for the loss of so great a 
part of his first day, took from him all disposition to 
enjoy the evening; and, after having endeavoured, 
for the sake of his attendants, to force an air of gaiety, 
and excite that mirth which he could not share, he re- 
solved to defer his hopes to the next morning ; and lay 
down to partake with the slaves of labour and poverty 
the blessings of sleep. 

He rose early the second morning, and resolved now 
to be happy. He therefore fixed upon the gate of the 
palace an edict, importing, that whoever, during nine 



204 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

days, should appear in the presence of the king with 
dejected countenance, or utter any expression of dis- 
content or sorrow, should be driven for ever from the 
palace of Dambea. 

This edict was immediately made known in every 
chamber of the court, and bower of the gardens. 
Mirth was frighted away, and they who were before 
dancing in the lawns, or singing in the shades, were at 
once engaged in the care of regulating their looks, that 
Seged might find his will punctually obeyed, and see 
none among them liable to banishment. 

Seged now met every face settled in a smile ; but a 
smile that betrayed solicitude, timidity, and constraint. 
He accosted his favourites with familiarity and softness; 
but they durst not speak without premeditation, lest 
they should be convicted of discontent or sorrow. He 
proposed diversions, to which no objection was made, 
because objection would have implied uneasiness ; but 
they were regarded with indifference by the courtiers, 
who had no other desire than to signalize themselves by 
clamorous exultation. He offered various topics of 
conversation, but obtained only forced jests, and la- 
borious laughter; and, after many attempts to animate 
his train to confidence and alacrity, was obliged to 
confess to himself the impotence of command, and re- 
sign another day to grief and disappointment. 

He at last relieved his companions from their terrors, 
and shut himself up in his chamber, to ascertain, by 
different measures, the felicity of the succeeding days. 
At length he threw himself on the bed, and closed his 
eyes ; but imagined in his sleep, that his palace and 
gardens w T ere overwhelmed by an inundation, and 
waked with all the terrors of a man struggling in the 
water. He composed himself again to rest, but was 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 20a 

frightened. by an imaginary irruption into his kingdom ; 
and striving, as is usual in dreams, without ability to 
move, fancied himself betrayed to his enemies, and 
again started up with horror and indignation. 

It was now day, and fear was so strongly impressed 
on his mind, that he could sleep no more. He rose, 
but his thoughts were filled with the deluge and inva- 
sion ; nor was he able to disengage his attention, or 
mingle with vacancy and ease in any amusement. At 
length his perturbation gave way to reason, and he re- 
solved no longer to be harassed by visionary miseries ; 
but before this resolution could be completed, half the 
day had elapsed. He feljt a new conviction of the un- 
certainty of human schemes, and could not forbear to 
bewail the weakness of that being, whose quiet was to 
be interrupted by vapours of the fancy. Having been 
first disturbed by a dream, he afterwards grieved that 
a dream could disturb him. ^He at last discovered, that 
his terrors and grief were equally vain; and that to 
lose the present in lamenting the past, was voluntarily 
to protract a melancholy vision. The third day was 
now declining, and Seged again resolved to be happy 
on the morrow. 

SECTION XII. 

History of Seged continued. 

On the fourth morning Seged rose early, refreshed 
with sleep, vigorous with health, and eager with ex- 
pectation. He entered the garden, attended by the 
princes and ladies of his court; and seeing nothing 
about him but airy cheerfulness, began to say to his 
heart, " This day shall be a day of pleasure." The 

s 



W6 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

sun played upon the water, the birds warbled in the 
groves, and the gales quivered among the branches, 
He roved from walk to walk as chance directed him; 
and sometimes listened to the songs, sometimes mingled 
with the dancers, sometimes let loose his imagination 
in flights of merriment j and sometimes uttered grave 
reflections, and sententious maxims, and feasted on the 
admiration with which they were received. 

Thus the day rolled on, without any accident of 
vexation, or intrusion of melancholy thoughts. All 
that beheld him caught gladness from his looks, and the 
sight of happiness, conferred by himself, filled his heart 
with satisfaction : but having passed three hours in this 
pleasing luxury, he was alarmed on a sudden by a uni- 
versal scream among the women -, and turning back, 
saw the whole assembly flying in confusion. A young 
crocodile had risen out of the lake, and was ranging 
the garden in wantonness or hunger. Seged beheld 
him with indignation, as a disturber of his felicity, and 
chased him back into the lake ; but could not persuade 
his retinue to stay, or free their hearts from the terror 
which had seized upon them. The princesses enclosed 
themselves in the palace, and could yet scarcely believe 
themselves in safety. Every attention was fixed upon 
the late danger and escape, and no mind was any 
longer at leisure for gay sallies, or careless prattle. 

Seged had now no other employment, than to con- 
template the innumerable casualties, which lie in 
ambush on every side to intercept the happiness of 
man, and break in upon the hour of delight and tran- 
quillity. He had, however, the consolation of think- 
ing, that he had not been now disappointed by his 
©wn fault ; and that the accident which had blasted 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 207 

the hopes of the day, might easily be prevented by 
future caution. 

That he might provide for the pleasure of the next 
morning, he resolved to repeal his penal edict, since he 
had already found, that discontent and melancholy 
were not to be frightened away by the threats of autho- 
rity, and that pleasure would only reside where she was 
exempted from controul. He therefore invited all the 
companions of his retreat to unbounded pleasantry, by 
proposing prizes for those who should, on the following 
day, distinguish themselves by any festive performances; 
the tables of the anti-chamber were covered with gold 
and pearls, and robes and garlands decreed the re- 
wards of those who could refine elegance, or heighten 
pleasure. 

At this display of riches every eye immediately 
sparkled, and every tongue was busied in celebrating 
the bounty and magnificence of the emperor. But when 
Seged entered, in hopes of uncommon entertainment 
from universal emulation, he found, that any passion 
too strongly agitated, puts an end to that tranquillity 
which is necessary to mirth ; and that the mind that is 
to be moved by the gentle ventilations of gaiety, must 
be first smoothed by a total calm. Whatever we ar- 
dently wish to gain, we must, in the same degree, be 
afraid to lose ; and fear and pleasure cannot dwell to- 
gether. 

All was now care and solicitude. Nothing was done 
or spoken, but with so visible an endeavour at perfec- 
tion, as always failed to delight, though it sometimes 
forced admiration: and Seged could not but observe 
with sorrow, that his prizes had more influence than 
himself. As the evening approached, the contest grew 
more earnest j and those who were forced to allow 






208 Sequel to the English Reader. Fart i. 

themselves excelled, began to discover the malignity 
of defeat, first by angry glances, and at last by con- 
temptuous murmurs. Seged likewise shared the 
anxiety of the day; for considering himself as obliged 
to distribute, with exact justice, the prizes which had 
been so zealously sought, he durst never remit his at- 
tention, but passed his time upon the rack of doubt, in 
balancing different kinds of merit, and adjusting the 
claims of all the competitors. — At last, knowing that no 
exactness a ^uld satisfy those whose hopes he should dis- 
appoint ; and thinking, that on a day set apart for hap- 
piness, it would be cruel to oppress any heart with 
sorrow ; he declared, that all had pleased him alike, and 
dismissed all with presents of equal value. 

Seged soon saw that his caution had not been able 
to avoid offence. They who had believed themselves 
secure of the highest prizes, were not pleased to be 
levelled with the crowd ; and though, by the liberality 
of the king, the}' received more than his promise had 
entitled them to expect, they departed unsatisfied, be- 
cause they were honoured with no distinction, and 
wanted an opportunity to triumph in the mortification 
of their opponents. " Behold here," said Seged, a the 
condition of him w T ho places his happiness in the hap- 
piness of others." He then retired to meditate : and 
while the courtiers were repining at his distributions, 
saw the fifth sun go down in discontent. 

The next dawn renewed his resolution to be happy. 
But having learned how little he could effect by settied 
schemes, or preparatory measures, he thought it best 
to give up one day entirely to chance, and left every 
one to please and be pleased in his own way. 

This relaxation of regularity diffused a general com- 
placence through the whole court .; and the emperor 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 209 

imagined, that he had at last found the seem of ob- 
taining an interval of felicity. But as he was roving 
in this careless assembly with equal carelessness, he 
overheard one of his courtiers in a close arbour mur- 
muring alone : u What merit has Seged above us, that 
we should thus fear and obey him? a man, whom, 
whatever he may have formerly performed, his luxury 
now shows to have the same weakness with ourselves." 
This charge affected him the more, as it was uttered 
by one whom he had always observed among the 
most abject of his flatterers. At first his indignation 
prompted him to severity ; but reflecting, that what 
was spoken without intention to be heard, was to be 
considered as only thought, and was perhaps but the 
sudden burst of casual and temporary vexation, he in- 
vented some decent pretence to send him away, that 
his retreat might not be tainted with the breath of 
envy; and after the struggle of deliberation was past, 
and all desire of revenge utterly suppressed, passed the 
evening not only with tranquillity, but triumph, thoug'h 
none but himself was conscious of the victory* 

The remembrance of this clemency cheered the be* 
ginning of the seventh day; and nothing happened to 
disturb the pleasure of Seged, till looking on the tree 
that shaded him, he recollected, that under a tree of 
the same kind he had passed the night after his defeat 
in the kingdom of Goiama. The reflection on his loss-, 
his dishonour, and the miseries which his subjects suf* 
fered from the invader, filled him with sadness. At 
last he shook off the weight of sorrow, and began to. 
solace himself with his usual pleasures, when his. tran- 
quillity was again disturbed by jealousies which the 
late contest for the prizes had produced, and whicfoy 

s2 



210 Sequel to the English Reader* Parti. 

having tried to pacify them by persuasion, he was 
forced to silence by command. 

On the eighth morning Seged was awakened early 
by an unusual hurry in the apartments ; and inquiring 
the cause, he was told that the princess Balkis was 
seized with sickness. He rose, and calling the physi- 
cians, found that they had little hope of her recovery. 
Here was an end of jollity : all his thoughts were now 
upon his daughter ; whose eyes he closed on the tenth 
day. 

Such were the days which Seged of Ethiopia had 
appropriated to a short respiration from the fatigues of 
war, and the cares of government. This narrative he 
has bequeathed to future generations, that no man 
hereafter may presume to say, " This day shall be a 
day of happiness." dr. johnson. 

section XIII. 

The Vision of Theodore, the hermit of Teneriffe, found 

in his cell.* 

Son of perseverance, whoever thou art, whose cu- 
riosity has led thee hither, read and be wise. He that 
now calls upon thee, is Theodore, the hermit of Tene- 
riffe, who, in the fifty-seventh year of his retreat, left 
this instruction to mankind, lest his solitary hours 
should be spent in vain. 



• Dr. Anderson, in his judicious and well-written life of Dr. 
Johnson, says, " This is a most beautiful allegory of human life, 
-under the figure of ascending the Mountain of Existence. Johnson 
thought it the best of his writings.'* 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 211 

I was once what thou art now, a groveller on the 
earth, and a gazer at the sky ; I trafficked and heaped 
wealth together, I loved and was favoured, I wore the 
robe of honour, and heard the music of adulation; I 
was ambitious, and rose to greatness ; I was unhappy, 
and retired. I sought for some time what I at length 
found here, a place where all real wants might be 
easily supplied ; and where I might not he under the 
necessity of purchasing the assistance of men, by the 
toleration of their follies. Here I saw fruits, and herbs, 
and water; and here determined to wait the hand of 
death, which I hope, when. at- last it comes, will fall 
lightly upon me. 

Forty-eight years had I now passed in forgetfulness 
of all mortal cares, and without any inclination to 
wander farther than the necessity of procuring suste- 
nance required ; but as I stood one day beholding the 
rock that overhangs my cell, I found in myself a desire 
to climb it; and when I was on its top, was in the same 
manner determined to scale the next, till by degrees I 
conceived a wish to view the summit of the mountain, 
at the foot of which I had so long resided. This mo- 
tion of my thoughts I endeavoured to suppress, not 
because it appeared criminal, but because it was new; 
and all change, not evidently for the better, alarms a 
mind taught by experience to distrust itself. I was 
often afraid that my heart was deceiving me ; that my 
impatience of confinement rose from some earthly pas- 
sion : and that my ardour to survey the works of na- 
ture, was only a hidden longing to mingle once again 
in the scenes of life. I therefore endeavoured to settle 
my thoughts into their former state ; but found their 
distraction every day greater. I was always reproach- 
ing myself with the want of happiness within my 



212 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i» 

reach ; and at last began to question whether it was 
not laziness, rather than caution, that restrained me 
from climbing to the summit of TenerifFe. 

I rose therefore before the day, and began my journey 
up the steep of the mountain; but I had not advanced 
far, old as I was, and burdened with provisions, when 
the day began to shine upon me ; the declivities grew 
more precipitous, and the sand siided from beneath my 
feet: at last, fainting with labour, I arrived at a small 
plain almost enclosed by rocks, and open only to the 
east. I sat down to rest a while, in full persuasion 
that when I had recovered my strength, I should pro- 
ceed on my design: but when once I had tasted ease, 
I found many reasons against disturbing it. The 
branches spread a shade over my head, and the gales 
of spring wafted odours to my bosom. 

As I sat thus, forming alternately excuses for delay, 
and resolutions to go forward, an irresistible heaviness 
suddenly surprised me. I laid my head upon the bank, 
and resigned myself to sleep ; when methought I heard 
the sound of the flight of eagles, and a being of more 
than human dignity stood before me. While I was 
deliberating how to address him, he took me by the 
hand with an air of kindness, and asked me solemnly, 
but without severity, " Theodore, whither art thou 
going?" I am climbing, answered I, to the top of the 
mountain, to enjoy a more extensive prospect of the 
works of nature. u Attend first," said he, " to the 
prospect which this place affords, and what thou dost 
not understand I will explain. I am one of the benevo- 
lent beings who watch over the children of the dust, to 
preserve them from those evils which will not ulti- 
mately terminate in good, and which they do not, by 
their own faults, bring upon themselves. Look round 



Chap* 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 213 

therefore without fear: observe, contemplate, and be 
instructed." 

Encouraged by this assurance, I looked and beheld 
a mountain higher than Teneriffe, to the summit of 
which the human eye could never reach. When I had 
tired myself with gazing upon its height, I turned my 
eye towards its foot, which I could easily discover, but 
was amazed to find it without foundation, and placed 
inconceivably in emptiness and darkness. Thus I stood 
terrified and confused ; above were tracts inscrutable, 
and below was total vacuity. But my protector, with 
a voice of admonition, cried out, " Theodore, be not 
affrighted, but raise thy eyes again : the Mountain of 
Existence is before thee ; survey it and be wise." 

I then looked with more deliberate attention, and 
observed the bottom of the mountain to be of gentle 
rise, and overspread with flowers; the middle to be 
more steep, embarrassed with crags, and interrupted 
by precipices, over which hung branches loaded with 
fruits, and among which were scattered palaces and 
bowers. The tracts which my eye could reach nearest 
the top, were generally barren; but there were among 
the clefts of the rocks a few hardy evergreens, which, 
though they did not give much pleasure to the sight 
or smell, yet seemed to cheer the labour and facilitate 
the steps of those who were clambering among them. 

Then, beginning to examine more minutely the dif- 
ferent parts, I observed at a great distance a multitude 
of both sexes, issuing into view from the bottom of the 
mountain. Their first actions I could not accurately 
discern : but, as they every moment approached nearer, 
I found that they amused themselves with gathering 
flowers, under the superintendence of a modest virgin 
in a white robe, who seemed not over solicitous to con 



214 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

fine them to any settled pace or certain track ; for 
she knew that the whole ground was smooth and solid, 
and that they could not easily be hurt or bewildered. 
When, as it often happened, they plucked a thistle for 
a flower, Innocence, so was she called, would smile at 
the mistake. Happy, said I, are they who are under 
so gentle a government, and yet are safe. But I had 
no opportunity to dwell long on the consideration of 
their felicity ; for I found that Innocence continued 
her attendance but a little way, and seemed to consider 
only the fiowery bottom of the mountain as her proper 
province. Those whom she abandoned scarcely knew 
that they were left, before they perceived themselves 
in the hands of Education, a nymph more severe in 
her aspect, and imperious in her commands, who con- 
fined them to certain paths, in their opinion too nar- 
row and too rough. These they were continually so- 
licited to leave, by Appetite, whom Education could 
never fright away, though she sometimes awed her to 
such timidity, that the effects of her presence were 
scarcely perceptible. Some went back to the first 
part of the mountain, and seemed desirous of continu- 
ing busied in plucking flowers, but were no longer 
guarded by Innocence; and such as Education could 
not force back, proceeded up the mountain by some 
miry road, in which they were seldom seen, and scarcely 
ever regarded. 

As Education led her troop up the mountain, no- 
thing was more observable than that she was frequently 
giving them cautions to beware of Habits j and was 
calling out to one or another, at every step, that a 
Habit was ensnaring them ; that they would be under 
the dominion of Habit before they perceived their 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 215 

danger; and that those whom a Habit should once 
subdue had little hope of regaining their liberty. 

Of this caution, so frequently repeated, I was very 
solicitous to know the reason, when my protector di- 
rected my regard to a troop of pygmies, which ap- 
peared to walk silently before those that were climb- 
ing the mountain, and each to smooth the way before 
her follower. I found that I had missed the notice of 
them before, both because they were so minute as not 
easily to be discerned, and because they grew every 
moment nearer in their colour to the objects with which 
they were surrounded. As the followers of Educa- 
tion did not appear to be sensible of the presence of 
these dangerous associates, or, ridiculing their dimi- 
nutive size, did not think it possible that human beings 
should ever be brought into subjection by enemies 
so feeble, they generally heard her precepts of vigilance 
with wonder: and, when they thought her eye with- 
drawn, treated them with contempt. Nor could I my- 
self think her cautions so necessary as her frequent in- 
culcations seemed to suppose, till I observed that each 
of these petty beings held secretly a chain in her hand, 
with which she prepared to bind those whom she 
found within her power. Yet these Habits, under the 
eye of Education, went quietly forward, and seemed 
very little to increase in bulk or strength; for though 
they were always willing to join with Appetite, yet 
when Education kept them apart from her, they would 
very punctually obey command, and make the narrow 
roads in which they were confined easier and smoother. 
It was observable, that their stature was never at a 
stand, but continually growing or decreasing, yet not 
always in the same proportions: nor could I forbear to 
express my admiration, when I saw in how much U- 



216 Sequel to the E?iglish Reader. Part I. 

time they generally gained than lost bulk. Though 
they grew slowly in the road of Education, it might 
however be perceived that they grew; but if they 
once deviated at the call of Appetite, their stature 
soon became gigantic; and their strength was such, 
that Education pointed out to her tribe many that 
were led in chains by them, whom she could never 
more rescue from their slavery. She pointed them 
out, but with little effect; for all her pupils ap- 
peared confident of their own superiority to the 
strongest Habit, and some seemed in secret to regret 
that they were hindered from following the triumph 
f)f Appetite. 

It was the peculiar artifice of Habit not to suffer her 
power to be felt at first. Those whom she led, she 
had the address of appearing only to attend, but was 
continually doubling her chains upon her companions ; 
which were so slender in themselves, 'and so silently 
fastened, that while the attention was engaged by other 
objects, they were not easily perceived. Each link 
grew tighter as it had been longer worn ; and when, 
by continual additions, they became so heavy as to be 
felt, they were very frequently too strong to be broken. 

When Education had proceeded, in this manner, to 
the part of the mountain where the declivity began to 
grow craggy, she resigned her charge to two powers 
of superior aspect. The meaner of them appeared ca- 
pable of presiding in senates, or governing nations, and 
yet watched the steps of the other with the most 
anxious attention ; and was visibly confounded and per- 
plexed, if ever she suffered her regard to be drawn 
away. The other seemed to approve her submission 
as pleasing, but with such a condescension as plainly 
showed that she claimed it as due ; and indeed so great 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 21 7 

was her dignity and sweetness, that he who would not 
reverence, must not behold her. 

" Theodore," said my protector, " be fearless, and 
be wise ; approach these powers, whose dominion ex- 
tends to all the remaining part of the Mountain of 
Existence." I trembled, and ventured to address the 
inferior nymph, whose eyes, piercing and awful, I 
was not able to sustain. " Bright power," said I, 
" bv whatever name it is lawful to address thee, tell 
me, thou who presidest here, on what condition thy 
protection will be granted?" " It will be granted," said 
she, " only to obedience. I am Reason, of all subor- 
dinate beings the noblest and the greatest ; who, if 
thou wilt receive my laws, will reward thee like the 
rest of my votaries, by conducting thee to Religion." 
Charmed by her voice and aspect, I professed my 
readiness to follow her. She then presented me to her 
Mistress, who looked upon me with tenderness. I 
bowed before her, and she smiled. 

SECTION XIV. 

The vision of Theodore continued. 

When Education delivered up those for whose happi- 
ness she had been so long solicitous, she seemed to expect 
that they should express some gratitude for her care, or 
some regret at the loss of that protection which she had 
hitherto afforded them. But it was easy to discover, 
by the alacrity which broke out at her departure, that 
her presence had been long displeasing, and that she 
had been teaching those who felt in themselves no want 
of instruction. They all agreed in rejoicing that they 
would no longer be subject to her caprices, or disturbed 
by her documents, but should be now under the di- 

T 



218 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I. 

rection only of Reason, to whom they made no doubt of 
being able to recommend themselves, by a steady adhe- 
rence to all her precepts. Reason counselled them, 
at their first entrance upon her province, to enlist them- - 
selves among the votaries of Religion ; and informed 
them, that if they trusted to her alone, they would find 
the same fate with her other admirers, whom she had 
not been able to secure against Appetites and Passions, 
and who, having been seized by Habits in the regions 
of Desire, had been dragged away to the caverns of 
Despair. Her admonition was vain, the greater num- 
ber declared against any other direction, and doubted 
not but by her superintendency they should climb 
with safety up the Mountain of Existence. " My 
power," said Reason, " is to advise, not to compel ; I 
have already told you the danger of your choice. The 
path seems now plain and even, but there are asperi- 
ties and pitfalls, over which Religion only can conduct 
you. Look upwards, and you perceive a mist before 
you settled upon the highest visible part of the moun- 
tain ; a mist by which my prospect is terminated, and 
which is pierced only by the eyes of Religion. Be- 
yond it are the temples of Happiness, in which those 
who climb the precipice by her direction, after the toil 
of their pilgrimage, repose for ever. I know not the 
way, and therefore can only conduct you to a better 
guide. Pride has sometimes reproached me with the 
narrowness of my view ; but when she endeavoured to 
extend it, could only show me, below the mist, the 
bowers of Content: even they vanished as I fixed 
my eyes upon them ; and those whom she persuaded to 
travel towards them wer£ enchained by Habits, and 
ingulfed by Despair, a cruel tyrant, whose caverns are 
beyond the darkness, on the right side and on the left, 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces, **. 

from whose prisons none can escape, and whom I can- 
not teach you to avoid." 

Such was the declaration of Reason to those who 
demanded her protection. Some that recollected the 
dictates of Education, finding them now seconded by 
another authority, submitted with reluctance to the 
strict decree, and engaged themselves among the fol- 
lowers of Religion, who were distinguished by the 
uniformity of their march, though many of them were 
women, and by their continual endeavours to move up- 
wards, without appearing to regard the prospects which 
at every step courted their attention. 

All those who determined to follow either Reason ot 
Religion, were continually importuned to forsake the 
road, sometimes by Passions, and sometimes by Appe- 
tites, of whom both had reason to boast the success of 
their artifices ; for so many were drawn into by-paths, 
that any way was more populous than the right. The 
attacks of the Appetites were more impetuous, those 
of the Passions longer continued. The Appetites 
turned their followers directly from the true way, but 
the Passions marched at first in a path nearly in the 
same direction with that of Reason and Religion ; but 
deviated by slow degrees, till at last they entirely 
changed their course. Appetite drew aside the dull, 
and Passion the sprightly. Of the Appetites, Lust 
was the strongest ; and of the Passions, Vanity. The 
most powerful assault was to be feared, when a Passion 
and an appetite joined their enticements ; and the path 
of Reason was best followed, when a Passion called to 
one side, and an Appetite to the other. 

These seducers had the^ greatest success upon the 
followers of Reason, over whom they scarcely ever 
failed to prevail, except when they counteracted one 



2 IS Sequel to the English Reader. Part i. 

CO 

.er. They had not the same triumphs over the 
./taries of Religion ; for though they were often led 
aside for a time, Religion commonly recalled them by 
her emissary Conscience, before Habit had time to 
enchain them. But they that professed to obey Rea- 
son, if once they forsook her, seldom returned; for 
she had no messenger to summon them but Pride, who 
generally betrayed her confidence, and employed all 
her skill to support Passion; and if ever she did her 
duty, was found unable to prevail, if Habit had inter- 
posed. 

I soon found that the great danger to the followers 
of Religion, was only from Habit; every other power 
was easily resisted, nor did they find any difficulty 
when they inadvertently quitted her, to find her again 
by the direction of Conscience, unless they had given 
time to Habit to draw her chain behind them, and bar 
up the way by which they had wandered. Of some of 
those, the condition was justly to be pitied, who turned 
at every call of Conscience, and tried, but without ef- 
fect, to burst the chains of Habit : saw Religion walk- 
ing forward at a distance, saw her with reverence, and 
longed to join her; but were, whenever they approach- 
ed her, withheld by Habit, and languished in sordid 
bondage, which they could not escape, though they 
scorned and hated it. 

It was evident that the habits were so far from grow- 
ing weaker by these repeated contests, that if they were 
not totally overcome, every struggle enlarged their 
bulk, and increased their strength ; and a Habit, op- 
posed and victorious, was more than twice as strong, as 
before the contest. The manner, in which those who 
were weary of their tyranny endeavoured to escape 
from them, appeared by the event to be generally 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces* %Zi 

wrong ; they tried to loose their chains one by one, 
and to retreat by the same degrees as they advanced; 
but before the deliverance was completed, Habit always 
threw new chains upon her fugitive. Nor did any 
escape her but those who, by an effort sudden and 
violent, burst their shackles at once, and left her at a 
distance; and even of these, many, rushing too pre- 
cipitately forward, and hindered by their terrors from 
stopping where they were safe, were fatigued with 
their own vehemence, and resigned themselves again 
to that power from whom an escape must be so dearly 
bought, and whose tyranny was little felt, except when 
it was resisted. 

Some however there always were, who, when they 
found Habit prevailing over them, called upon Reason 
or Religion for assistance : each of them willingly came 
to the succour of her suppliant; but neither with the 
same strength, nor the same success. Habit, insolent 
with her power, would often presume to parley with 
Reason, and offer to loose some of her chains if the rest 
might remain. To this, Reason, who was never certain 
of victory, frequently consented, but always found her 
concession destructive, and saw the captive led away 
by Habit to his former slavery. Religion never sub- 
mitted to treaty, but held out her hand with certainty* 
of conquest; and if the captive to whom she gave it, 
did not quit his hold, always led him away in triumph, 
and placed him in the direct path to the temple of 
Happiness ; where Reason never failed to congratulate 
his deliverance, and encourage his adherence to that 
power, to whose timely succour he was indebted for 
it. 

T 2 



222 Sequel to the English Reader* Part I. 

section xv. 
The Vision of Theodore continued. 

When the traveller was again placed in the road of 
Happiness, I saw Habit again gliding before him, but 
reduced to the stature of a dwarf, without strength and 
without activity ; but when the Passions or Appetites, 
which had before seduced him, made their approach, 
Habit would on a sudden start into size, and with un- 
expected violence push him towards them. The 
wretch, thus impelled on one side, and allured on the 
other, too frequently quitted the road of Happiness, to 
which, after his second deviation from it, he rarely re- 
turned. But, by a timely call upon Religion, the 
force of Habit was eluded, her attacks grew fainter, 
and at last her correspondence with the enemy was 
entirely destroyed. She then began to employ those 
restless faculties, in compliance with the power which 
she could not overcome j and as she grew again in 
stature and in strength, cleared away the asperities of 
the road to Happiness. 

From this road I could not easily withdraw my 
attention, because all who travelled it appeared cheerful 
and satisfied; and the farther they proceeded, the 
greater appeared their alacrity, and the stronger their 
conviction of the wisdom of their guide. Some who 
had never deviated but by short excursions, had Habit 
in the middle of their passage vigorously supporting 
them, and driving off the Appetites and Passions 
which attempted to interrupt their progress. Others, 
who had entered this road late, or had forsaken it, 
were toiling on without her help at least, and commonly 
against her endeavours. But I observed, when they 



Chap, 8- Promiscuous Pieces* 223 

approached to the barren top, that few were able to 
proceed without some support from Habit; and that 
they, whose Habits were strong, advanced towards the 
mists with little emotion, and entered them at last with 
calmness and confidence ; after which, they were seen 
only by the eye of Religion ; and though Reason looked 
after them with the most earnest curiosity, she could 
only obtain a faint glimpse, when her mistress, to 
enlarge her prospect, raised her from the ground. 
Reason, however, discerned that they were safe, but 
Religion saw that they were happy. 

4 Now, Theodore, said my protector, withdraw thy 
4 view from the regions of obscurity, and see the fate 

* of those who, when they were dismissed by Education, 

* would admit no direction but that of Reason. Survey 

* their wanderings, and be wise.' 

I looked then upon the road of Reason, which was 
indeed, so far as it reached, the same with that of 
Religion, nor had Reason discovered it but by her 
instruction. Yet when she had once been taught it, 
she clearly saw that it was right ; and Pride had some- 
times incited her to declare that she discovered it her- 
self, and persuaded her to offer herself as a guide to 
Religion, whom after many vain experiments she 
found it her highest privilege to follow. Reason was 
however at last well instructed in part of the way, and 
appeared to teach it with some success, when her 
precepts were not misrepresented by Passion, or her 
influence overborne by Appetite. But neither of these 
enemies was she able to resist. When Passion seized 
upon her votaries, she seldom attempted opposition. 
She seemed indeed to contend with more vigour against 
Appetite, but was generally overwearied in the contest ; 
and if either of her opponents had confederated whh 



224 Sequel to the English Reader, Part I. 

Habit, her authority was wholly at an end. When 
Habit endeavoured to captivate the votaries of Religion, 
she grew by slow degrees, and gave time to escape; 
but in seizing the unhappy followers of Reason, she 
proceeded as one that had nothing to fear, and enlarged 
her size, and doubled her chains without intermission, 
and without reserve. 

Of those who forsook the directions of Reason, some 
were led aside by the whispers of Ambition, who was 
perpetually pointing to stately palaces, situated on 
eminences on either side, recounting the delights of 
affluence, and boasting the security of power. They 
were easily persuaded to follow her, and Habit quickly 
threw her chains upon them ; they were soon convinced 
of the folly of their choice, but few of them attempted 
to return. Ambition led them forward from precipice 
to precipice, where many fell and were seen no more. 
Those that escaped were, after a long series of hazards, 
generally delivered over to Avarice, and enlisted by 
her in the service of Tyranny, where they continued 
to heap up gold, till their patrons or their heirs pushed 
them headlong at last into the caverns of Despair. 

Others were enticed by Intemperance to ramble in 
search of those fruits that hung over the rocks, and 
filled the air with their fragrance. I observed, that the 
Habits which hovered about these soon grew to an 
enormous size, nor were there any who less attempted 
to return to Reason, or sooner sunk into the gulfs that 
lay before them. When these first quitted the road, 
Reason looked after them with a frown of contempt, 
but had little expectation of being able to reclaim 
them ; for the bowl of intoxication was of such qua- 
lities as to make them lose all regard but for the present 
moment. Neither Hope nor Fear could enter their 



Chap, 8. Promiscuous Pieces, 225 

retreats ; and Habit had so absolute a power, that even 
Conscience, if Religion had employed her in their 
favour, would not have been able to force an entrance. 
There were others whose crime it was rather to 
neglect Reason than to disobey her; and who retreated 
from the heat and tumult of the way, not to the bowers 
of Intemperance, but to the maze of Indolence. They 
had this peculiarity in their condition, that they were 
always in sight of the road of Reason, always wishing 
for her presence, and always resolving to return to- 
morrow. In these, was most eminently conspicuous 
the subtlety of Habit, who hung imperceptible shackles 
upon them, and was every moment leading them far- 
ther from the road, which they always imagined that 
they had the power of reaching. They Wandered on 
from one double of the labyrinth to another, with the 
chains of Habit hanging secretly upon them, till, as 
they advanced, the flowers grew paler, and the scents 
fainter : they proceeded in their dreary march without 
pleasure in their progress, yet without power to re- 
turn j and had this aggravation above all others, that 
they were criminal but not delighted. The drunk- 
ard for a time laughed over his wine ; the ambitious 
aan triumphed in the miscarriage of his rival ; but 
tie captives of Indolence had neither superiority 
or merriment. Discontent lowered in their looks, 
nd Sadness hovered round their shades ; yet they 
rawled on reluctant and gloomy, till they arrived at 
he depth of the recess, varied only with poppies and 
ightshade, where the dominion of Indolence termi- 
ates, and the hopeless wanderer is delivered up to 
Melancholy: the chains of Habit are rivetted for ever; 
nd Melancholy, having tortured her prisoner for a 
ime, consigns him at last to the cruelty of Despair, 



226 Sequel to the English Reader, Part i. 

While I was musing on this miserable scene, my 
protector called out to me, " Remember, Theodore, 
and be wise, and let not Habit prevail against thee." 
I started, and beheld myself surrounded by the rocks 
of Teneriffe ; the birds of light were singing in the 
trees, and the glances of the mountain darted upon me. 

BR. JOHNSON. 



PART 1L 
PIECES IN POE TRY. 



CHAPTER I. 

NARRATIVE PIECES. 



SECTION I. 

The chameleon ; or pertinacity exposed* 

Ott has it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark, 
With eyes that hardly serv'd at most 
To guard their master 'gainst a post ; 
Yet round the world the blade has been, 
To see whatever could be seen : 
Returning from his iinish'd tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before ; 
Whatever word you chance to drop, 
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop : 
" But, if my judgment you'll allow — 
I've seen— and sure I ought to know" — 
So begs you'd pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast, 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, 
And on their way, in friendly chat, 
Now talk'd of this, and then of that, 



228 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2* 

Discours'd a while, 'mongst other matter, 
Of the chameleon's form and nature, 
** A stranger animal," cries one, 
14 Sure never liv'd beneath the sun J 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, 
Its foot with triple claw disjoin'd; 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace ! and then its hue — 
Who ever saw so fine a blue?" 
* 4 Hold there," the other quick replies, 
" 'Tis green — I saw it with these eyes, 
As late with open mouth it lay, 
And warm'd it in the sunny ray ; 
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, 
And saw it eat the air for food." 

" I've seen it, friend, as well as you. 
And must again affirm it blue. 
At leisure I the beast survey'd, 
Extended in the cooling shade." 

" 'Tis green, 'tis green, I can assure ye."-— 
64 Green !" cries the other in a fury — 
" Why, do you think I've lost my eyes:" 
" 'Twere no great loss," the friend replies, 
" For, if they always serve you thus, 
You'll find them of but little use." 

So high at last the contest rose, 
From words they almost came to blows : 
When luckily came by a third — 
To him the question they referrM ; 
And begg'd he'd tell 'em if he knew, 
Whether the thing was green or blue. 

" Come," cries the umpire, " cease your pother, 
The creature's neither one nor t'other : 



■ 



*Chap.l. Narrative Pieces* 229 

I caught the animal last night, 
And view'd it o'er by candle light: 
I mark'd it well— 'twas black as jet — - 
You stare — but I have got it yet, 
And can produce it." " Pray then do : 
For I am sure the thing is blue." 

" And I'll engage that when you've seen 
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." 

" Well then, at once to ease the doubt," 
Replies the man, " I'll turn him out : 
And when before your eyes I've set him, 
If you don't find him black I'll eat him." 

He said ; then full before their sight 
Produc'd the beast, and lo— 'twas white! 
Both star'd; the man look'd wond'rous wise— 
'" My children," the chameleon cries, 
(Then first the creature found a tongue,) 
" You all are right, and all are wrong : 
When next you talk of what you view, 
Think others see as well as you : 
.Nor wonder, if you find that none 
Prefers your eye-sight to his own." merrick. 

section ri. 
The hare and many friends. 

Friendship, in truth, is but a name, 
Unless to few we stint the frame. 
The child, whom many fathers share, 
Hath seldom known a father's care. 
Tis thus in friendship; who depend 
On many, rarely find a friend, 

IT 



e>\ 






Sequel ta the English Reader. Pxwt % 

A hare, who in a civil way, 
Complied with every thing, like Gay, 
Was known by all the bestial train, 
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. 
Pier care was, never to offend ; 
And ev'ry creature was her friend. 

As fortlvshe went, at early dawn, 
To taste the dew-besprinked lawn, 
Behind she hears the hunter's cries, 
And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies. 
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath j 
She hears the near advance of death 5 
She doubles to mislead the hound, 
And measures back her mazy round ; 
'Till, fainting in the public way, 
Half-dead with fear she gasping lay. 

What transport in her bosom grew, 
When first the horse appear'd in view! 
-" Let me," says she, u your back ascend, 
And owe my safety to a friend. 
You know my feet betray my flight ; 
To friendship ev'ry burthen's light." 

The horse replied, " Poor honest puss ! 
It grieves my heart to see thee thus: 
Be comforted, relief is near ; 
For all your friends are in the rear." 

She next the stately bull implor'd ; 
And thus replied the mighty lord ; 
" Since ev'ry beast alive can tell 
That I sincerely, wish you well, 
I may, without offence, pretend 
To take the freedom of a friend. — - 
To leave you thus might seem' unkind .; 
But see, the goat is just behind." 



ChapM. Narrative Pieces. ' 23V 

The goat remark'd her pulse was high, 
Her languid head, her heavy eye ; 
" My back," says he, " may do you harm ; 
The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 

The sheep was feeble, and complain'd 
His sides a load of wool sustain'd : 
Said he was slow, confess' d his fears ; 
Fcr'hounds eat sheep as "well as hares, 

She now the trotting calf addressed, 
To save from death a friend distress'd, 
*' Shall I," says he, " of tender age, 
In this important care engage ? 
Older and abler pass'd you by : 
How strong are those ! how weak am 1 1 
Should I presume to bear you hence, 
Those friends of mine might take offence, 
Excuse me, then. You know my heart, 
But dearest friends, alas! must part. 
How shall we all lament !— Adieu ! 
For, see, the hounds are just in view*" cay, • 

SECTION III. 

The three warnings*? 

The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground i 
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 

That love of life increas'd with years 
So much, that in our latter stages, 
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rage~ ; 

The greatest love of life appears. 
This great affection to believe, 
Which all confess, but few perceive- 



'232. Sequel to the English Reader. £art 2* 

If old assertions can't prevail, 
Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale.. 

When sports went round, and all were gay? 
On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, 
Death call'd aside the jocund groom 
With, him into another room ; 
And looking grave — " You must," says he, 
4 Quit your sweet bride, and come with me" 
u With you! and quit my Susan's side! 
With you !" the hapless husband cried j 
tC Young as I am 'tis monstrous hard ! 
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd: 
My thoughts on other matters go ; 
This is my wedding-day you know." 
What more he urg'd I have not heard , 

His reasons could not well be stronger ^ 
So death the poor delinquent spar'd 

And left to live a little longer. 
Yet calling up a serious look, 
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — 
" Neighbour," he said, " FarewelL No niose 
Shall death disturb your mirthful hour: 
And farther, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name, 
To give you time for preparation, 
And fit you for your future station, 
Three several Warnings you shall have r 
Before you're summon'd to the grave.- 
Willing for once I'll quit my prey, 

And grant a kind reprieve ; 
In hopes you'll have no more to say j 
But, when I call again this way, 

Well pleas'd the world will leave," 



Chap* 1. Narrative Pieces, 223 

To these conditions both consented, 
And parted perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 
How long he liv'd, how wise, how well, 
How roundly he pursu'd his course, 
And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse^. 

The willing muse shall tell : 
He chafFer'd then, he bought, he sold, . 
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old, 
Nor thought of Death as near j 
His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains j his children few, 

He pass'd his hours in peace. 
But while heview'd his wealth/increase, 
While thus along Life's dusty road 
The beaten track content he trod, 
Old time, whose haste no mortal spares, 
UncalPd, unheeded, unawares, 

Brought on his eightieth year. 
And now, one night, in musing mood, 

As all alone he sate, 
Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate 
Once more before him stood. 
Half-kill'd with anger and surprise, 
M So soon returned !". old Dodson cries.. 

" So soon, d'ye call it V death replies i- 
" Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ! 

Since I was here before 
'Tis six and thirty years at leasty 
And you are now fourscore." 
" So much the worse," the clown rejoiivj-. 
M To spare the aged would be kind i * 
However, see your search be legal ; 
And your authority*— is't regal f 

xi. at 



2o4< Sequel to the English Reader* P(trt 2c 

Else you are come on a fool's errand, 

With but a secretary's warrant. 

Beside, you promis'd me Three Warnings, 

Which I have look'd for nights and mornings ! 

But for that loss of time and ease, 

I can recover damages." 

" I know," cries death, " that, at the best^ 
I seldom am a welcome guest ; 
But don't be captious, friend, at least : 
I little thought you'd still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable ; 
Your years have run to a great length; 
I wish you joy, tho', of your strength !" 

u Hold," says the farmer," not so fast! 
I have been lame these four years past." 

" And no. great wonder," Death replies : 
a However, you still keep your eyes; 
And sure, to see one's loves and friends, 
For legs and arms would make amends." 

" Perhaps," says Dodson, " so it might. 
But latterly I've lost my sight." 

" This is a shocking tale, 'tis true ; 
But still there's comfort left for you : 
Each strives your sadness to amuse ; 
I warrant you hear all the news." 

4C There's none," cries he ; u and if there were^ 
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." 

" Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd, 
" These are unjustifiable yearnings ;" 

" If you are Lame, and Deaf, and Blind, 
You've had your Three sufficient Warnings. 
So, come along, no more we'll part ;" 
He said, and touch' d him with his dart. 
And now, old Dodson turning pale, 
Yields to his fate— so ends my tale. thrale. 



'hap. 1. Narrative Pieces* 235 

SECTION IV. 

The Hermit. 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 
From youth to age a rev'rend hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; 
Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days, 
Pray'r all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred,, such serene repose, 
Seem'd heav'n itself, till one suggestion rose— ^ 
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway « 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenour of his soul is lost. 
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest 
Calm nature's image on its wat'ry breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, 
And skies beneath with answering colours glow '- 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry side, 
And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun ; 
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight? 
To find if books or swains report it right, 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew,) 
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-staff he bore, 
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ; 
Then with the sun a rising journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, 
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass : 



236 Sequel to the English Reader* Part 2, 

But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, 
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way : 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair : 
Then near approaching, " Father, hail!" he cried, 
And, " Hail, my son !" the rev'rend sire replied. 
Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, . 
And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road ; 
Till each with other pleas'd, and loath to part, 
While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun-; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature in silence bid the world repose : 
When near the road a stately palace rose. 
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass^_. 
Whose verdure crown'd the sloping sides of grass. 
It chanc'd the noble master of the dome 
Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home ; 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive : the liv'ried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of food, 
And all is more than hospitably good. - 
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down* 

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 
And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleeps 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call; 
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall j 



Chap. 1. Narrative Pieces 23? 

Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd, 
Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste. 
Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go j 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe : 
His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise 
The younger guest purloinM the glittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
Glist'ning and basking in the summer ray, 
Disordered stops to shun the danger near, 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear; 
So seem'd the sire, when far upon the road 
The shining spoilhis wily partner show'd. 
He stopped with silence, walk r d with trembling heart, 
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask, to part : 
Murm'ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard, 
That gen'rous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the sunhis glory shrouds, 
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; 
A sound in air presag'd approaching rain, 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warn'd by the signs, the wand'ring pair retreat,. 
To seek for shelter at a neighb'ring seat. 
'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, 
And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around ; 
Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe, 
Unkind and griping, cans 'd a desert there* 
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,. 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning mix'd with show'rs began, 
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. 
Here long they knock,, but knock or call in vain^. 
Driven by the wind and batter'd by the rain. 
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast ; 
{'Twas then his threshold iirst receiv'd a guest;) 



258 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari 






Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care 5 
And half he welcomes in the shiv'ring pair. 
One frugal fagot lights the naked wails, 
And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls* 
Bread of the coarsest sort? with meagre wine, 
(Each hardly granted,) serv'd them both to dine : 
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 

With still remark the pond'ring hermit view'd ? 
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude \ 
And why should such (within himself he cried) 
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? 
But what new marks of wonder soon take place, 
In ev'ry settling feature of his face, 
When from his vest the young companion bore 
That cup the gen'rous landlord own'd before, 
And paid profusely with the precious bowl 
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
The sun emerging opes an azure sky; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves display, 
And, glitt'ring as they tremble, cheer the day ; 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

Wliile hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought 
With all the travail of uncertain thought ; 
His partner's acts without their cause appear; 
7 Twas there a vice ; and seem'd a madness here : 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky; 
Again the wand'rers want a place to lie : 
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 



■ ■'Chap, 1. Narrative Pieces. -'329 

The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat, 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great, 
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, 
Content, and not for praise but virtue kind. 
Hither the walkersfturn with weary feet, 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. 
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise. 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies: 
" Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
To him, who gives us all. I yield a part; 
From him you come, for him accept it here, 
A frank and sober more than costly cheer." 
He spoke and bid the welcome table spread, 
Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed ; 
When the grave household round his hall repair, 

v Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with pray'r. 
At length the world, xenew'd by calm repose, 

- Was strong for toil ; the dappled, morn arose; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the clos'd cradle, where an infant slept, 
And writh'd his neck : the landlord's little pride, 
O strange return! grew black, andgasp'd, and died. 
Horror of horrors ! what! his only son! 
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done ! 
Not hell,, tho' hell's black jaws in sunder part, 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart 
Confus'd and struck with silence at the deed, 

.He flies; but, trembling, fails to fly with speed. 

.His steps the youth pursues; the country lay 
Perplex'd with roads ; a servant show 'd the way: 
A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er 

'Was nice to find ; the servant trod before : 

Xong arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, 

And deep the waves beneath the bending branches glide, ' 



240 Sequel to the English Reader. Fart 2. 

The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, 
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in: 
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head ; 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 

Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes ; 
He bursts the bands of fear and madly cries ; 
<c Detested wretch!" — But scarce his speech began., 
When the strange partner seem'd no longer man. 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet ; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air ; 
And wings whose colours glitter 7 d on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display* 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Tho* loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, 
Sudden he gazM, and wist not what to do; 
Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends. 
And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke ; 
The voice of music ravished as he spoke. 

u Thy pray'r, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne ; 
These charms success in our bright region find, 
And force an angel down to calm thy mind ; 
For this commissionM, I forsook the sky — » 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 
Then know the truth of government Divine, 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
The Maker justly claims that world he made.; 
In this the right of Providence is laid. 
Its sacred majesty through all depends, 
On using second means to work his ends. 



Chap, 1. Narrative Pieces* 2-11 

'Tisthus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 
The Pow'r exerts his attributes on high ; 
Your actions uses, nor controuls your will; 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
What strange events can strike with more surprise, 
Than those which lately struck thy wond'ringeyes? 
Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just; 
And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 

" The great vain man, who far'd on costly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his iv'ry stands with goblets shine, 
And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine; 
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

" The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er mov'd in pity to the Wand'ring poor, 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heav'n can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bow$, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul, 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head: 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 

" Long had our pious friend in virtue trod ; 
But now the child half wean'd his heart from God 
Child of his age, for him he liv'd in pain, 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ! 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 
To all but thee in fits he seem'd to go; 
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. 
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 

x 



242 



Sequel to the English Reader. Part&* 



But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back! 
This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to steal, 
And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
Thus Heav'n instructs thy mind : this trial o'er, 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew ; 
The sage stood wond'ring as the seraph flew. 
Thus look'd Elisha, when, to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky, 
The fiery pomp ascending left the view; 
The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too. 
The bending Hermit here a. pray'r begun : 
Lord! as in heav'n, on earth thy ivill be done. 
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place ; 
.And pass'da life of piety and peace. 



.- 



( 243 } 

CHAPTER II. 
DIDACTIC PIECES', 



SECTION I. 

The love of the xvarld detected. 

Thus says the prophet of the Turk : 
Good Mussulman, abstain from pork : 
There is a part in ev'ry swine 
No friend or follower of mine 
May taste, whate'er his inclination, 
On pain of excommunication. 
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, 
And thus he left the point at large. 
Had he the sinful part express'd, 
They might with safety eat the rest: 
But for one piece they thought it hard 
From the whole hog to be debarr'd ; 
And set their wit at work to find 
What joint the prophet had in mind. 
Much controversy straigtoarose : 
These choose the back, the belly those ; 
By some 'tis confidently said 
He meant not to forbid the head : 
While others at that doctrine rail, 
And piously prefer the tail. 
Thus, conscience freed from ev'ry clog, 
Mahometans eat up the hog. 



-o 



244 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

You laugh — 'tis well — the tale applied 
May make you laugh on t'other side. 
" Renounce the world," the preacher cries: 
" We do," a multitude replies. 
Vv T hile one as innocent regards 
A snug and friendly game at cards ; 
And one, whatever you may say> 
Can see no evil in a playj 
Some love a concert, or a race, 
And others, shooting, and the chase.. 
ReviI'd and lov'd, renounc'd and follow^ 
Thus bit by bit the world is swallow'd ; 
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free^ 
Yet likes a slice as well as he : 
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, 
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten. 

COWP£R* 

SECTION & 

On Friendship. 

What virtue, or what mental grace, 
But men, unqualified and base, 

Will boast it their profession? 
Profusion apes the noble part 
Of liberality of heart, 

And dullness, of discretion. 

If ev'ry polish'd gem we find 
Illuminating heart or mind, 

Provoke to imitation; 
No wonder Friendship does the same, 
That jewel of the purest flame^ 

Or rather constellation^ 



Chap, 2. Didactic Pieces* 246' 

No knave but boldly will pretend 
The requisites that form, a friend, 

A real and a sound one, 
Nor any fool he would deceive. 
But proves as ready to believe, 

And dream that he has found one. 

Candid, and generous, and just, 
Boys care but little whom they trust, 

An error soon corrected — 
For who but learns in riper years, 
That man when smoothest he appears 

Is most to be suspected ? 

But here again a danger lies, 
Lest having misemploy'd our eyes 

And taken trash for treasure, 
We should unwarily conclude 
Friendship a false ideal good, 

A mere Utopian pleasure, 

An acquisition rather rare, 
Is yet no subject of despair ; 

Nor is it wise complaining, 
If either on forbidden ground, 
Or where it was not to be found. 

We sought without attaining. 

No friendship will abide the test 
That stands- on sordid interest* 

Or mean self-love erected ; 
Nor such as may awhile subsist 
Between the sot and sensualist^ 

For vicious ends connected,. 

X 2 



-246 Sequel to the English Reader* Part 2* 

Who seeks a friend, should come dispos'd 
T' exhibit, in full bloom disclos'd, 

The graces and the beauties, 
That form the character he seeks 
For 'tis an union that bespeaks 

Reciprocated duties. 

.Mutual attention is implied, 
And equal truth on either side, 

And constantly supported; 
'Tis senseless arrogance t' accuse 
Another of sinister views, 
*!^ur own as much distorted* 

But will sincerity suffice? 
It is indeed above all price, 

And must be made the basis; 
But ev'ry virtue of the soul 
Must constitute the charming Wholej 

All shining in their places. 

A fretful temper will divide 

The closest knot that may be tiecJ^ 

By careless sharp corrosion : 
A temper passionate and fierce 
May suddenly your joys disperse 

At one immense explosion. 

In vain the talkative unite 

In hopes of permanent delight— 

Tne Secret just committed, 
Forgetting its important weight, 
They drop through mere desire to p&fe^ 

And by themselves outwitted. 



Chap, 2. Didactic Pieces. 24.7 

How bright soe'er the prospect seems, 
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams 

If envy chance to creep in : 
An envious man, if you succeed, 
May prove a dang'rous foe indeed, 

But not a friend worth keeping. 

As envy pines at good possess'd,, 
So jealousy looks forth distress'd 

On good that seems approaching j 
And if success his steps attend, 
Discerns a rival in a friend, 

And hates him for encroaching. 

Hence authors of illustrious name, 
Unless belied by common fame, 

Are sadly prone to quarrel j 
To deem the wit a friend displays 
A tax upon their own just praise, 

And pluck each other's laurel. 

A man renown'd for repartee, 
Will seldom scruple to make free 

With friendship's finest feeling ; 
Will thrust a dagger at your breast, 
And say he wounded you in jest, 

By way of balm for healing. 

Whoever keeps an open ear 
For tattlers, will be sure to hear 

The trumpet of contention ; 
Aspersion is the babbler's trade, 
To listen is to lend him aid, 

And rush into dissention. 



248 Sequel to the English Reader* Pari % 

A friendship that in frequent fits 
Of controversial rage emits 

The^sparks of disputation, 
Like hand in hand insurance plates,. 
Most unavoidably creates 

The thought of conflagration. 

Some fickle creatures boast a soul 
True as the needle to the pole, 

Their humour yet so various — 
They manifest, their whole life through, 
The needle's deviation too, 

Their love is so precarious* 

The great and small but rarely meet 
On terms of amity complete ; 

Plebeians must surrender, 
And yield so much to noble folk r 
It is combining fire with smoke, 

Obscurity with splendour.. 

Some are so placid and serene 
£As Irish bogs are always green) 

They sleep secure from waking ; 
And are indeed a bog that bears 
Your unparticipated cares, 

Unmov'd and without quaking. 

Courtier and patriot cannot mix 
Their het'rogeneous politics, 

"Without an effervescence,. 
Like that of salts with lemon juice,. 
Which does not yet like that produce 

A friendly coalescence, ^Jffr N 



Chap, 2. Bidactic Pieces. 249 

Religion should extinguish strife, 
And make a calm of human life y 

But friends that chance to differ 
On points which God has left at large, 
How fiercely will they meet and charge;^ 

No combatants are stiffer ! 

To prove at last my main intent, 
Needs no expense of argument, 

No cutting and contriving — 
Seeking a real friend, we seem 
T' adopt the chymist's golden drearn^ 

With still less hope of thriving. 

Sometimes the fault is all our own, 
Some blemish in due time made knowa 5 

By trespass or omission ; 
Sometimes occasion brings to light 
Our friend's defect, long hid from sight, 

And even from suspicion. 

Then judge yourself, and prove your man 
As circumspectly as you canj 

And having made election* 
Beware no negligence of yours, 
Such as a friend but ill endures, 

Enfeeble his affection. 

That secrets are a sacred trust, 

That friends should be sincere and just$ 

That constancy befits them, 
Are observations on the case 
That savour much of common place. 

And all the world admits them. 



250 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, 
An architect requires alone, 

To finish a fine building — 
The palace were but half complete, 
If he could possibly forget 

The carving and the gilding* 

The man that hails you, Tom or Jack, 
And proves, by thumps upon your back ? 

How he esteems your merit, 
Is such a friend, that one had need 
Be very much his friend indeed,, 

To pardon or to bear it. 

As similarity of mind,. 

Or something not to be defin'd, 

First fixes our attention ; 
So manners decent and polite, 
The same we practis'd at first sight, 

Must save it from declension. 

Some act upon this prudent plan, 
" Say little and hear all you can ;'■' 

Safe policy but hateful — 
So barren sands imbibe the showV, 
But render neither fruit nor flow'r r 

Unpleasant and ungrateful. 

The man I trust, if shy to me, 
Shall find me as reserv'd as he, 

No subterfuge or pleading 
Shall win my confidence again i 
I will by no means entertain 

A spy on my proceeding''.. 



Chap. 2. Didactic Pieces. 25 1 

These samples — for alas! at last 
These are but samples and a taste 

Of evils yet unmention'd — 
May prove the task a task indeed, 
In which 'tis much if we succeed, 

However well-intention'd. 

Pursue the search, and you will find, 
Good sense and knowledge of mankind 

To be at least expedient ; 
And after summing all the rest, 
Religion ruling in the breast, 

A principal ingredient. 

The noblest friendship ever shown 
The Saviour's history makes known, 

Though some have turn'd and turn'd its 
And whether being craz'd or blind. 
Or seeking with a bias'd mind, 

Have not, it seems, discern'd it. 

Oh Friendship! if my soul forego 
Thy dear delights while here below ; 

To mortify and grieve me, 
May I myself at last appear 
Unworthy, base, and insincere, 

Or may my friend deceive me ! cowper. 

section III. 

Improvement of time recommended. 

He mourns the dead, who lives as they desire. 
Where is that thrift, that avarice of Time, 
(Blest av'rice !) which the thought of death inspires^ 
O time ! than gold more sacred ; more a load 
Than lead, to fools- j and fools reputed wise* 



252 Sequel to the English Reader. Part & 

What moment granted man without account? 

What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid ? 

Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door, 

Insidious Death j should his strong hand arrest, 

No composition sets the prisoner free. 

Eternity's inexorable chain 

Fast binds ; and vengeance claims the full arrear. 
How late I shudder'd on the brink ! how late 

Lift call'd for her last refuge in despair! 

For what calls thy disease? for moral aid. 

Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon. 
Youth is not rich in time ; it may be, poor; 
Part with it as with money, sparing ; pay 
No moment, but in purchase of its worth : 
And what its worth, ask death-beds, they can tell 
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big 
With holy hope of nobler time to come* 
Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain ? 
And sport we, like the natives of the bough, 
When vernal suns inspire ? Amusement reigns;., 
Man's great demand : to trifle is to live : 
And is it then a trifle, too, to die ? — 
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle ? 
Is it not treason to the soul immortal, 
Her foes in arms, eternity the prize ? 
Will toys amuse, when med'cines cannot cure? 
When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes 
Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight ; 
(As lands, and cities with their glitt'ring spires 
To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm 
Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there,) 
Will toys amuse ! — No : thrones will then be toy^, 
And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale. 
Redeem we time ? — its loss we dearly buy. 
What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd sports ? 



Chap. 2. Didactic Pieces, 253 

He pleads time's num'rous blanks ; he loudly pleads 
The straw-like trifles on life's common stream. 
From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee? 
No blank, no trifle, nature made or meant. 
Virtue, or purpos'd virtue, still be thine : 
This cancels thy complaint at once ; this leaves 
In act no trifle, and no blank in time. 
This greatens, fills, immortalizes all : 
This, the blest art of turning all to gold; 
This, the good heart's prerogative to raise 
A royal tribute, from the poorest hours. 
Immense revenue ! ev'ry moment pays. 
If nothing more than purpose in thy pow'r, 
Thy purpose firm, is equal to the deed : 
JVho does the best his circumstance allows, 
Does well ; acts nobly ; angels could no more. 
Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint ; 
'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer ; 
Guard well thy thoughts ; our thoughts are heard in 
heav'n. 
On all important time, thro' ev'ry age, 
Tho' much, and warm, the wise have urg'd ; the man 
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour. 
u I've lost a day" — the prince who nobly cried, 
Had been an emperor without his crown. 
He spoke, as if deputed by mankind. 
So should all speak : so reason speaks in all. 
From the soft whispers of that God in man, 
Why fly to folly, why to phrenzy fly, 
For rescue from the blessing we possess ? 
Time, the supreme! — Time is eternity; 
Pregnant with all eternity can give, 
Pregnant with all that makes arch-angels smile : 
Who murders time, he crushes in the birth 
A pow'r ethereal, only not ador'd. young. 

Y 



— *»^"" 



~— — 



( 254 } 



CHAPTER III. 



DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 



SECTION I. 

The Spring, 

Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 
Fair Venus' train appear ; 
Disclose the long-expected flow'rs, 
And wake the purple year ! 
The Attic warbler pours her throat, 
Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
The untaught harmony of Spring ; 
While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly, 
Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky 
Their gather'd fragrance fling. 



Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 

A broader, browner shade i 

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 

O'ercanopies the glade j 

Beside some water's rushy brink 

With me the Muse shall sit, and think 

(At ease reclin'd in rustic state) 

How vain the ardour of the crowd, 

How low, how little are the proud, 

How indigent the great ! 



Chap, 3. Descriptive Pieces, 255 

Still is the toiling hand of care ; 

The panting herds repose ; 

Yet, hark, how thro' the peopled air 

The busy murmur glows ! 

The insect youth are on the wing, 

Eager to taste the honey 'd spring, 

And float amid the liquid noon : 

Some lightly o'er the current skim, 

Some show their gay ly- gilded trim 

Quick-glancing to the sun. 

To contemplation's sober eye 

Such is the race of man ; 

And they that creep, and they that fly, 

Shall end where they began. 

Alike the busy and the gay 

But flutter thro' life's little day, 

In fortune's varying colours drest : 

Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance, 

Or chill'd by age, their airy dance 

They leave, in dust to rest. GRAY. 

SECTION II. 

Description of winter at Copenhagen. 

From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, 
From streams that northern winds forbid to flow, 
What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, 
Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing ? 
The hoary winter here conceals from sight 
All pleasing objects that to verse invite. 
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, 
The flow'ry plains and silver-streaming floods, 



256 Sequel to the English Reader.* Part 2. 

By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie, 
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. 

No gentle breathing, breeze prepares the spring, 
No birds within the desert region sing. 
The ships, unmov'd, the boisterous winds defy, 
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. 
The vast leviathan wants room to play, 
And spout his waters in the face of day. 
The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, 
And to the moon in icy valleys howl. 
For many a shining league the level main 
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain : 
There solid billows, of enormous size, 
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. 
And yet but lately have I seen, e'en here, 
The winter in a lovely dress appear. 
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, 
Or winds began through hazy skies to blow, 
At ev'ning a keen eastern breeze arose ; 
And the descending rain unsullied froze. 
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, 
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view 
The face of nature in a rich disguise, 
And'brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes : 
For ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grass, 
And every pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass. 
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorn show. 
While through the ice the crimson berries glow. 
The thick-sprung reeds the wat'ry marshes yield 
Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field. 
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise 
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise. 
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine, 
Glaz'd over, in the freezing ether shine. 



Chap. 3. Descriptive Pieces. 257 

The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, 

That wave and glitter in the distant sun. 

When, if a sudden gust of wind arise, 

The brittle forest into atoms flies ; 

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, 

And in a spangled show'r the prospect ends : 

Or, if a southern gale the region warm, 

And by degrees unbind the wint'y charm, 

The traveller a miry country sees, 

And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees. 

Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads 
Thro' fragrant bow'rs, and through delicious meads \ 
While here enchanting gardens to him rise, 
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes, 
His wand'ring feet the magic path pursue ; 
And while he thinks the fair illusion true, 
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, 
And woods, and wilds, and thorny waves appear: 
A tedious road the weary wretch returns, 
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns, 

l'BXLLXP& 
SECTION III. 

Night described. 

Now came still ev'ning on, and twilight gray 
Had, in her sober liv'ry, all things clad. 
Silence accompanied ; for beasts and birds, 
Those to their grassy couch, these to their nests 
Were sunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale : 
She all night long her plaintive descant sung. 
Silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament 
With living sapphires. Hesperus, that led 

y 2 



■JT 



258 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2, 

The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, 
Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light ; 
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 

MILTON* 

Night, sable power! from her ebon throne, 
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. 
Silence, how dead, and darkness, how profound! 
Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds : 
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulse 
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause, 
An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 



YOUNG, 



SECTION 117. 

Grongar hilt. 

Silent Nymph ! with curious eye. 
Who, the purple eve, dost lie 
On the mountain's lonely van, 
Beyond the noise of busy man, 
Painting fair the form of things, 
While the yellow linnet sings ; 
Or the tuneful nightingale 
Charms the forest with her tale ; 
Come, with all thy various hues, 
Come, and aid thy sister Muse. 
Now, while Phoebus riding high, 
Gives lustre to the land and sky, 
Grongar hill invites my song, 
Draw the landscape bright and strongs 



Chap. 3. Descriptive Pieces. 259 

Grongar ! in whose mossy cells, 

Sweetly musing quiet dwells ; 

Grongar ! in whose*silent shade, 

For the modest Muses made, 

So oft I have, the ev'ning still, 

At the fountain of a rill, 

Sat upon a flow'ry bed, 

With my hand beneath my head, 

While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 

Over mead and over wood, 

From house to house, from hill to hill, 

Till Contemplation had her fill. 

About his chequer'd sides I wind, 
And leave his br6oks and meads behind ; 
And groves and grottos, where I lay, 
And vistos shooting beams of day. 
Wide and wider spreads the vale, 
As circles on a smooth canal : 
The mountains round, unhappy fate, 
Sooner or later, of all height ! 
Withdraw their summits from the skies* 
And lessen as the others rise. 
Still the prospect wider spreads, 
Adds a thousand woods and meads j 
Still it widens, widen still, 
And sinks the newly-risen hill. 

Now I gain the mountain's brow ; 
What a landscape lies below ! 
No clouds, no vapours intervene ; 
But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of nature show 
In all the hues of heav'n's bow ; 
And, swelling to embrace the light. 
Spreads around beneath the sight* 



26Q Sequel to the English Reader* Part 8. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise, 
Proudly tow'ring in the skies ; 
Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires : 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow-mountain heads, 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 
And glitters on the broken rocks. 

Below me trees unnumber'd rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes : 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue* 
The yellow beech, the sable yew ; 
The slender fir that taper grows, 
The sturdy oak with broad spread boughs i 
And, beyond the purple grove, 
Haunt of virtue, peace, and love ! 
Gaudy as the op'ning dawn, 
Lies a long and level lawn, 
On which a dark hill, steep and high, 
Holds and charms the wand'ring eye. 
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood j 
His sides are cloth'd with waving wood i 
And ancient tow'rs crown his brow, 
That cast an awful look below ; 
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, 
And with her arms from falling keeps : 
So both a safety from the wind, 
In mutual dependence, find. 

? Tis now the raven's bleak abode, 
5 Tis now th' apartment of the toad; 
And there the fox securely feeds, 
And there the pois'nous adder breeds, 
ConceaTd in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 



} 



} 



Chap* 3. v Descriptive Pieces* 261 

While, ever and anon, there falls 
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls. 
Yet time has seen, that lifts the low, 
And level lays the lofty brow, 
Has seen this broken pile complete, 
Big with the vanity of state : 
But transient is the smile of fate ! 
A little rule, a little sway, 
A sun-beam in a winter's day, 
Is all the proud and mighty have, 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

And see the rivers, how they run 
Thro' woods and meads, in shade and sun ? 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep, 
Like human life to final sleep. 
Thus is nature's vesture wrought, 
To instruct our wand'ring thought ; 
Thus she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse our cares away. 

Ever chanaing, ever new, 
When will the landscape tire the view? 
The fountain's fall, the river's flow, 
The woody vallies, warm and low; 
The windy summit, wild and high, 
Roughly rushing on the sky ; 
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow'r, 
The naked rock, the shady bow'r; 
The town and village, dome and farm, 
Each give each a double charm, 
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm* 



w ■ 



262 Sequel to the English Reader P<*ft 2* 



See on the mountain's southern side* 
Where the prospect opens wide, 
Where the evening gilds the tide, 
How close and small the hedges lie ! 
What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! 
A step, methinks, may pass the stream ; 
So little distant dangers seem : 
So we mistake the future's face, 
Ey'd through hope's deluding glas*s> 
As yon summits soft and fair, 
Clad in colours of the air, 
Which to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear : 
Still we tread the same coarse way j 
The present's still a cloudy day. 

O may I with myself agree, 
And never covet what I see ! 
Content me with a humble shade, 
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid ; 
For while our wishes widely roll, 
We banish quiet from the soul : 
*Tis thus the busy beat the air, 
And misers gather wealth and care. 

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high, 
As on the mountain turf I lie ; 
While the wanton Zephyr sings, « i 
And in the vale perfumes his wings: 
While the waters murmur deep ; 
While the shepherd charms his sheep ; 
While the birds unbounded fly, 
And with music fill the sky ; 
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts ! be great who will ; 
Search for peace with all your skill } 



} 



} 



Chap. 3. Descriptive Pieces. 263 

Open wide the lofty door, 
Seek her on the marble floor : 
In vain ye search, she is not there ; 
In vain ye search the domes of care ! 
Grass and flowers quiet treads, 
On the meads and mountain-heads, 
Along with pleasure close allied, 
. Ever by each other's side ; 
And often, by the murm'ring rill, 
Hears the thrush, while all is still 
Within the groves of Grongar Hill* \ dyer. 

section v. 
Description of a parish poor-house* 

Behold yon house that holds the parish poor, 
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ! 
There, where the putrid vapours flagging play, 
And the dull wheel hums doleful thro' the day ; 
There children dwell who know no parents' care ; 
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there ; 
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, 
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed ; 
Dejected widows with unheeded tears, 
And crippled age with more than childhood fears ; 
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they ! 
The moping idiot, and the madman gay. 

Here too the sick their final doom receive, 
Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve : 
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,. 
Mix'd with the clamours of the croud below ; 
Here sorrowing they each kindred sorrow scaiv 
And the cold charities of man to man : 



264 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2, 

Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide, 
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride : 
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, 
And pride embitters what it can't deny. 

Say, ye oppress'd by some fantastic woes, 
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose ; 
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance 
With timid eye, to read the distant glance j 
Who with sad pray'rs the weary doctor tease 
To name the nameless ever-new disease ; 
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure. 
Which real pain, and that alone, can cure ; 
How would you bear in real pain to lie, 
Despis'd, neglected, left alone to die ? 
How would you bear to draw your latest breath, 
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death ? 

Stkch is that room which one rude beam divides, 
And'naked rafters form the sloping sides ; 
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, 
And lath and mud are all that lie between ; 
Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way 
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : 
Here, on a matted flock, with dust oVrspread, 
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head. 
For him no hand the cordial cup applies, 
Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ; 
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, 
Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile, grabbe. 

section VI. 

A Summer Evening's Meditation. 

^ « One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine." Young. 
'Tis past ! the sultry tyrant of the south 
Has spent his short-liv'd rage. More grateful hours 



Chap. 3. Descriptive Pieces. 26. 

Move silent on. The skies no more repel 
The dazzled sight; but, with mild maiden beams 
Of temper'd light, invite the cherish'd eye 
To wander o'er their sphere; where, hung aloft, 
Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow 
New strung in heav'n, lifts high its beamy horns, 
Impatient for the night, and seems to push 
Her brother down the skv- Fair Venus shines 
E'en in the eye of day; with sweetest beam 
Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood 
Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks. 
The shadows spread apace ; while meeken'd eve, 
Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires 
Thro' the Hesperian gardens of the west, 
And shuts the gates of day^ 'Tis now the houir 
When contemplation, from her sunless haunts, 
The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth 
Of unpierc'd woods, where wrapt in silent shade, 
She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon, 
And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun, 
Moves forward ; and with radiant finger points 
To yon blue concavex swell'd by breath divine, 
Where, one by one, the living eyes of heav'n 
Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether 
One boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling fires, 
And dancing lustres, where th' unsteady eye, 
Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd 
O'er all this field of glories : spacious field, 
And worthy of the Master! he whose hand, 
With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile, 
llnscrib'd the mystic tablet, hung on high 
ITo public gaze ; and said, Adore, O man, 
IThe finger of thy God ! From what pure wells 4 
lOf milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn, 

z 



=51 



266 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2, 

Are all these lamps so fill'd ? these friendly lamps, 

For ever streaming o'er the azure deep, 

To point our path, and light us to our home. 

How soft they slide along their lucid spheres ! 

And, silent as the foot of time, fulfil 

Their destin'd courses. Nature's self is hush'd, 

And, but a scatter'd leaf, which rustles thro' 

The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard 

To break the midnight air ; tho' the rais'd ear, 

Intensely list'ning, drinks in ev'ry breath. 

How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise ! 

But are they silent all? or is there not 

A tongue in every star that talks with man, 

And woos him to be wise ; nor woos in vain : 

This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, 

And wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. 

At this still hour the self-collected soul 

Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there 

Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; 

An embryo God ; a spark of fire divine, 

Which must burn on for ages, when the sun 

(Fair transitory creature of a clay !) 

Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades, 

Forgets his wonted journey thro' the east. 

Ye citadels of light, and seats of bliss ! 
Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, 
Revolving periods past, may oft look back, 
With recollected tenderness, on all 
The various busv scenes she left below, 
Its deep-laid projects, and its strange events, 
As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd 
Her infant hours. — O be it lawful no w 
T« tread the hallow'd circle of your courts, 
And, with mute wonder and delighted awe, 



Chap. 3. Descriptive Pieces. 267, 

Approach your burning confines ! — Seiz'd in thought, 

On fancy's wild and roving wing I sail 

From the green borders of the peopled earth, 

And the pale moon, her duteous fair attendant ; 

From solitary Mars ; from the vast orb 

Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk 

Dances in ether like the lightest leaf ; 

To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, 

Where cheerless Saturn, 'midst his wat'ry moons, 

Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, 

Sits like an exil'd monarch. Fearless thence 

I launch into the trackless deeps of space, 

Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, 

Of elder beam ; which ask no leave to shine 

Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light 

From the proud regent of our scanty day : 

Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, 

And only less than he who marks their track, 

And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop, 

Or, is there aught beyond ? What hand unseen 

Impels me onward, thro' the glowing orbs 

Of habitable nature, far remote, 

To the dread confines of eternal night, 

To solitudes of vast unpeopled space, 

The deserts of creation, wide and wild, 

Where embryo systems and unkindled suns 

Sleep in the womb of chaos ? Fancy droops, 

And Thought astonish'd stops her bold career. 

But, oh, thou mighty MIND! whose pow'rful word 

Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were, 

Where shall I seek thy presence ? how, unblam'd, 

Invoke thy dread perfection \ 

Have the broad eye-lids of the morn beheld thee ? 
Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion 



268 Sequel to the English Reader, Part 2; 

Support thy throne ? O look with pity down 
On erring, guilty man ! not in thy names 
Of terror clad j not with those thunders arm'd 
That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd 
The scattered tribes : thou hast a gentler voice, 
That whispers comfort to the swelling heart, 
Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker. 

But now my soul, unus'd to stretch her pow'rs 
In flight so daring, drops her weary wing, 
And seeks again the known accustom'd spot, 
Brest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams; 
A mansion fair and spacious for its guest, 
And full replete with wonders. Let me here, 
Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time, 
And ripen for the skies : the hour will come 
When all these splendours bursting on my sight 
Shall stand unveil'd, and to my ravish'd sense 
Unlock the glories of the world unknown. 

BARBAULD'. 
SECTION Vlli 

Cheerfulness. 

Fair as the dawning light ! auspicious guest T 
Source of all comfort to the human breast ! 
Depriv'd of thee, in sad despair we moan, 
And tedious roll the heavy moments on. 
Though beauteous objects all around us rise, 
To charm the fancy and delight the eyes ; 
Tho' art's fair works and nature's gifts conspire 
To please each sense, and satiate each desire, 
J Tis joyless all — till thy enlivening ray 
Scatters the melancholy gloom awav. 



} 



Chap, 3. Descriptive Pieces. 269 

Then opens to the soul a heavenly scene, 
Gladness and peace, all sprightly, all serene. 

Where dost thou deign, say, in what blest retreat, 
To choose thy mansion, and to fix thy seat I 
Thy sacred presence how shall we explore ? 
Can av'rice gain thee with her golden store 1 
Can vain ambition, with her boasted charms, 
Tempt thee within her wide-extended arms ? 
No, with content alone canst thou abide, 
Thy sister, ever smiling by thy side. 

When boon companions void of ev'ry care 
Crown the full bowl, and the rich banquet share, 

And give a loose to pleasure- — art thou there ? 
Or when th' assembled great and fair advance 
To celebrate the mask, the play, the dance, 

Whilst beauty spreads its sweetest charms around, -* 
And airs ecstatic swell their tuneful sound, t 

Art thou within the pompous circle found? J 

Does not thy influence more sedately shine ? 

Can such tumultuous joys as these be thine ? 

Surely more mild, more constant in their course, 

Thy pleasures issue from a nobler source ; 

From sweet discretion ruling in the breast, 

From passions temper'd, and from lusts represt; 

From thoughts unconscious of a guilty smart, 

And the calm transports of an honest heart. 
Thy aid, O ever faithful, ever kind ! 

Thro' life, thro' death, attends the virtuous mind ; 

Of angry fate wards from us every blow, 

Cures ev'ry ill, and softens ev'ry woe. 

Whatever good our mortal state desires, 
What wisdom finds, or innocence inspires ; 

From nature's bounteous hand whatever flows, 
Whate'er our Maker's providence bestows, 

z 2 



270 Sequel to the English Reader, Part 2. 

By thee mankind enjoys ; by thee repays 
A grateful tribute of perpetual praise. 

■FITZGERALD-* 
SECTION VIII. 

Providence. 

Lo ! now the ways of heav'n's eternal King 

To man are open! 

Review them and adore ! Hear the loud voice 

Of Wisdom sounding in her works ! — " Attend, 

Ye sons of men! ye children of the dust, 

Be wise ! Lo ! I was present, when the Sire 

Of heav'n pronounc'd his fiat ; when his eye 

Glanc'd thro' the gulf of darkness, and his hand 

Fashion'd the rising universe : — I saw, 

O'er the fair lawns, the heaving mountains raise 

Their pine-clad spires ; and down the shaggy cliff 

I gave the rill to murmur. The rough mounds 

That bound the madd'ning deep ; the storm that roars 

Along the desert ; the volcano fraught 

With burning brimstone ; — I prescribe their ends. 

I rule the rushing winds, and on their wings 

Triumphant, walk the tempest. — To my call 

Obsequious bellows the red bolt, that tears 

The cloud's thin mantle, when the gushing show's* 

Descending copious bids the desert bloom." 

" I gave to man's dark search superior light ; 
And clear'd dim reason's misty view, to mark 
His povv'rs, as through revolving ages tried, 
They rose not to his Maker. Thus prepar'd 
To know how distant from his narrow ken 
The truths by heav'n reveal'd, my hand display'd 
The plan fair-op'ning, where each nobler view-, 



Chap. 3. Descriptive Pieces. 2£1 

That swells th' expanding heart; each glorious hope, 

That points ambition to its goal ; each aim, 

That stirs, exalts, and animates desire ; 

Pours on the mind's rapt sight a noon-tide ray." 

* Nor less in life employ'd, 'tis mine to raise 
The desolate of heart ; to bend the brow 
Of stubborn pride, to bid reluctant ire 
Subside ; to tame rude nature to the rein 
Of virtue. What tho', screen'd from mortal view, 
I walk the deep'ning gloom ? What tho' my ways, 
Remote from thought's bewilder'd search, are wrapt 
In triple darkness ? — Yet I work the springs 
Of life, and to the gen'ral good direct 
Th' obsequious means to move. — O ye, who toss'd 
On life's tumultuous ocean, eye the shore, 
Yet far remov'd ; and wish the happy hour, 
When slumber on her downy couch shall lull 
Your cares to sweet repose ; yet bear awhile, 
And I will guide you to the balmy climes 
Of rest ; will lay you by the silver stream 
Crown'd with elysian bow'rs, where peace extends 
Her blooming olive, and the tempest pours 
Its killing blast no more." Thus Wisdom speaks 
To man ; thus calls him thro' the external form 
Of nature, thro' Religion's fuller noon, 
Thro' life's bewild'ring mazes ; to observe 

A PROVIDENCE IN ALL. OGlLVIE. 

SECTION IX. 

The last day* 

AT the destin'd hour, 
By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge, 
See, all the formidable sons of fire, 
^Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings, play^ 



272 Sequel to the English Reader, Tart g. 

Their various engines ; all at once disgorge 
Their blazing magazines : and take by storm 
This poor terrestrial citadel of man. 

Amazing period! when each mountain-height 
Out-burns Vesuvius j rocks eternal pour 
Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd > 
Stars rush ; and final ruin fiercely drives 
Her ploughshare o'er creation ! — -while aloft 
More than astonishment ! if more can be ! 
Far other firmament than e'er was seen, 
Than e'er was thought by man ! far other stars ! 
Stars animate, that govern these of fire j 
Far other sun ! — A sun, O how unlike 
The babe at Bethlem ! How unlike the man 
That groan'd on Calvary ! — Yet he it is ; 
That man of sorrows! O how chang'd ! what pomp ! 
In grandeur terrible, all heav'n descends : 
A swift archangel, with his golden wing, 
As blots and clouds, that darken and disgrace 
The scene divine, sweeps stars and suns aside. 
And now, all dross remov'd, heav'n's own pure day, 
Full on the confines of our ether, flames : 
While, (dreadful contrast !) far, how far beneath ! 
Hell, bursting, belches forth her blazing seas, 
And storms sulphureous j her voracious jaws 
Expanding wide, and roaring for her prey. 

At midnight, when mankind is wrapp'd in peace, 
And worldly fancy feeds on golden dreams, 
Man, starting from his couch, shall sleep no more I 
The day is broke, which never more shall close ! 
Above, around, beneath, amazement all ! 
Terror and glory join'a in their extremes ! 
Our God in grandeur, and our world on fire ! 
All nature struggling in the pangs of death ! 



Chap. 3. Descriptive Pieces* 273 

Dost thou not hear her ? dost thou not deplore 
Her strong convulsions, and her final groan ? 
Where arc we now? Ah me ! the ground is gone 
On which we stood ! Lorenzo ! while thou mayst, 
Provide more firm support, or sink for ever ! 
Where ? how ? from whence ! vain hope ! it is too late ! 
Where, where, for shelter, shall the guilty fly, 
When consternation turns the good man pale 1 

Great day ! for which all other days were made ; 
For which earth rose from chaos ; man from earth ; 
And an eternity, the date of gods, 
Descended on poor earth-created man ! 
Great day of dread decision, and despair ! 
At thought of thee, each sublunary wish 
Lets go its eager grasp, and drops the world ; 
And catches at each reed of hope in heav'n. 
Already is begun the grand assize, 
In us, in all : deputed conscience scales 
The dread tribunal, and forestalls our doom ; 
Forestalls ; and, by forestalling, proves it sure. 
Why on himself should man void judgment pass ? 
Is idle nature laughing at her sons ? 
Who conscience sent, her sentence will support^ 
And God above assert that God in man. 
Thrice happy they, that enter now the court 
Heav'n opens in their bosoms ; but how rare ! 
Ah me ! that magnanimity, how rare ! 
What hero, like the man who stands himself? 
Who dares to meet his naked heart alone ; 
Who hears intrepid the full charge it brings, 
Resolv'd to silence future murmurs there ? 
The coward flies ; and, flying, is undone. 
Shall man alone, whose fate, whose final fate, 
Hangs on that hour, exclude it from his thought?' 



27 4f Sequel to the English Reader. Fart 2. 

I think of nothing else ; I see ! I feel it ! 

All nature, like an earthquake, trembling round ! 

I see the Judge enthron'd ! the flaming guard ! 

The volume open'd ! open'd ev'ry heart ! 

A sun-beam pointing out each secret thought ! 

No patron ! intercessor none ! now past 

The sweet, the clement, mediatorial hour ! 

For guilt no plea ! to pain, no pause ! no bound ! 

Inexorable, all ! and all extreme ! 

Nor man alone ; the foe of God and man, 

From his dark den, blaspheming, drags his chain, 

And rears his brazen front, with thunder scarr'd. 

Like meteors in a stormy sky, how roll 

His baleful eyes ! he curses whom he dreads ; 

And deems it the first moment of his fall ! 

YOUNG* 



C 2/5 ) 
CHAPTER IV. 

PATHETIC PIECES. 



SECTION I. 

Hymn to Humanity. 

Parent of virtue, if thine ear 
Attend not now to sorrow's cry; 

If now the pity-streaming tear 

Should haply on thy cheek be dry ; 

Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity ! 

Come, ever welcome to my breast, 

A tender, but a cheerful guest ! 

Nor always in the gloomy cell 

Of life-consuming sorrow dwell ; 

For sorrow, long-indulg'd and slow, 

Is to Humanity a foe ; 

And grief, that makes the heart its prey, 

Wears sensibility away. 

Then comes, sweet nymph, instead of tljiee, 

The gloomy fiend, Stupidity. 

O may that fiend be banish'd far, 
Though passions hold perpetual war ! 
Nor ever let me cease to know 
The pulse that throbs at jo}^ or woe. 
Nor let my vacant cheek be dry, 
When sorrow fills a brother's eve : 



276 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

Nor may the tear that frequent flows, 
From private or from social woes, 
E'er make this pleasing sense depart : 
Ye cares, O harden not my heart ! 

If the fair star of fortune smile, 
Let not its fiatt'ring pow'r beguile ; 
Nor, borne along the fav'ring tide, 
My full sails swell with bloating pride. 
Let me from wealth but hope content, 
Rememb'ring still it was but lent ; 
To modest merit spread my store, 
Unbar my hospitable door ; ' 
Nor feed, for pomp, an idle train, 
While want unpitied pines in vain. 

If Heav'n in ev'ry purpose wise, 
The envied lot of wealth denies ; 
If doom'd to drag life's painful load 
Through poverty's uneven road, 
And, for the due bread of the day, 
Destin'd to toil as well as pray ; 
To thee, Humanity, still true, 
I'll wish the good I cannot do ; 
And give the wretch, that passes by, 
A soothing word — a tear — a sigh. 

Howe'er exalted or deprest, 

Be ever mine the feeling breast. 

From me remove the stagnant mind 

Of languid indolence, reclin'd ; 

The soul that one long sabbath keeps, 

And through the sun's whole circle sleeps j 



Chap. 4. Pathetic Pieces. 277 

Dull peace, that dwells in folly's eye, 
And self-attending vanity, 
Alike the foolish and the vain 
Are strangers to the sense humane. 

O for that sympathetic glow 

Which taught the holy tear to flow, 

When the prophetic eye survey'd 

Sion in future ashes laid ; 

Or, rais'd to Heav'n, implor'd the bread 

That thousands in the desert fed! 

Or, when the heart o'er friendship's grave, 

Sigh'd — and forgot its pow'r to save ■ 

for that sympathetic glow, 
Which taught the holy tear to flow! 

It comes : it fills my lab'ring breast, 

1 feel my beating heart opprest. 
Oh ! hear that lonely widow's wail ! 
See her dim eye ; her aspect pale ! 
To Heav'n she turns in deep despair ; 
Her infants wonder at her pray'r, 
And, mingling tears they know not why, 
Lift up their little hands and cry. 

O Lord ! their moving sorrows see ! 
Support them, sweet Humanity ! 

Life, fill'd with grief's distressful train, 
For ever asks the tear humane. 
Behold in yon unconscious grove 
The victims of ill-fated love! 
Heard you that agonizing throe? 
Sure this is not romantic woe 1 

A a 



278 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

The golden day of joy is o'er; 
And now they part — to meet no more. 
Assist them, hearts from anguish free ! 
Assist them, sweet Humanity! 

Parent of virtue, if thine ear 

Attend not now to sorrow's cry ; 

If now the pity-streaming tear 

Should haply on thy cheek be dry, 

Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity! 

, LANGHORNE. 



SECTION II. 

A night-piece on death. 

By the blue taper's trembling light, 
No more I waste the wakeful night, 
Intent with endless view to pore 
The schoolmen and the sages o'er: 
Their books from wisdom widely stray, 
Or point at best the longest way. 
I'll seek a readier path, and go 
Where wisdom's surely taught below. 
How deep yon azure dies the sky! 
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, 
While thro' their ranks in silver pride 
The nether crescent seems to glide. 
The slumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe, 
The lake is smooth and clear beneath, 
Where once again the spangled show 
Descends to meet our eyes below. 
The grounds which on the right aspire, 
In dimness from the view retire : 



Chap. 4. Pathetic Pieces. 279 

The left presents a place of graves, 
Whose wall the silent water laves. 
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight 
Among the livid gleams of night ; 
There pass with melancholy state, 
By all the solemn heaps of fate, 
And think, as softly-sad you tread 
Above the venerable dead, 
" Time was, like thee, they life possest, 
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest." 

Those graves with bending osier bo unci. 
That nameless heave the crumbled ground, 
Quick to the glancing thought disclose 
Where toil and poverty repose. 
The flat smooth stones that bear a name, 
The chissel's slender help to fame ; 
(Which, ere our set of friends decay, 
Their frequent steps may wear away ;) 
A middle race of mortals own, 
Men, half ambitious, all unknown. 

The marble tombs that rise on high, 
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 
Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones, 
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones, 
These (all the poor remains of state) 
Adorn the rich, or praise the great ; 
Who while on earth in fame they live, 
Are senseless of the fame they give. 
Ha ! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, 
The bursting earth unveils the shades ! 
All slow, and wan, and wi app'd with shrouds. 
They rise in visionary crowds, 
And all with sober accent cry, 
«* Think, Mortal, what it is to die." 



,280 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

Now from yon black and fun'ral yew, 
That bathes the charnel-house with dew, > 

Methinks I htar a voice begin ; 
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, 
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound 
O'er the long lake and midnight ground;) 
It sends a peal of hollow groans, 
Thus speaking from among the bones. 

" When men my scythe and darts supply, 
How great a king of fears am I ! 
They view me like the last of things : 
They make, and then they dread, my stings. 
Fools ! if you less provoke your fears, 
No more my spectre-form appears. 
Death's but a path that must be trod, 
If man would ever pass to God: 
A port of calms, a state of ease 
From the rough rage of swelling seas." 

" Why then thy flowing sable stoles, 
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles, 
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, 
Long palls, drawn herses, covered steeds, 
And plumes of black, that as they tread, 
Nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead . ? " 

" Nor can the parted body know, 
Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe : 
As men who long in prison dwell, 
With lamps that glimmer round the cell, 
Whene'er their sufPring years are run, 
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring sun ; 
Such joy, tho' far transcending sense, 
Have pious souls at parting hence, 
On earth, and in the body plac'd, 
A few, and evil years they waste: 



C/iap.4. Pathetic Pieces. 28t 

But when their chains are cast aside, 
See the glad scene unfolding wide, 
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away, 
And mingle with the blaze of day." 

PARSTELL. 



SECTION III. 

In evert/ condition of life, Praise is due to the Creator, 

Praise to God, immortal praise, 
For the love that crowns our days ; 
Bounteous source of ev'ry joy, 
Let thy praise our tongues employ : 

For the blessings of the field, 
For the stores the gardens yield, 
For the vine's exalted juice, 
For the gen'rous olive's use. 

Flocks that whiten all the plain : 
Yellow sheaves of ripen' d grain ; 
Clouds that drop their fattening dews j 
Suns that temp'rate warmth diffuse ; 

All that spring, with bounteous hand, 
Scatters o'er the smiling land ; 
All that lib'ral autumn pours, 
From her rich o'erflowing stores : 

These to thee, my God, we owe, 
Source from whence all blesssings flow \ 
And for these my soul shall raise 
Grateful vows, and solemn praise* 

A a % 



282 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear 
From its stem the rip'ning ear ; 
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot 
Drop her green, untimely fruit : 

Should the vine put forth no more, 
Nor the olive yield her store ; 
Though the sick'ning flocks should fall, 
And the herds desert the stall ; 

Should thine alter'd hand restrain 
The early and the latter rain ; 
Blast each op'ning bud of joy, 
And the rising year destroy : 

Yet, to thee my soul shall raise 

Grateful vows and solemn praise ; 

And, when ev'ry blessing's flown, 

Love thee — for thyself alone. barbaulb. 

SECTION IV. 

Folly of human pursuits* 

Blest be that hand divine, which gently laid 
My heart at rest beneath this humble shed ! 
The world's a stately bark, on dang'rous seas, 
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril. 
Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore, 
I hear the tumult of the distant throng, 
As that of seas remote, or dying storms ; 
And meditate on scenes more silent still ; 
Purs xc my theme, and fight the fear of death. 
Here, like a shepherd, gazing from his hut, 
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff, 
Eager ambition's fiery chase I see. 



Chap. 4. Pathetic Pieces. 28S 

I see the circling hunt of noisy men 

Burst law's inclosure, leap the mounds of right, 

Pursuing and pursu'd, each other's prey ; 

As wolves, for rapine ; as the fox, for wiles ; 

Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them ail. 

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 
What, tho' we wade in wealth, or soar in fame, 
Earth's highest station ends in, u here he lies :" 
And " dust to dust" concludes her noblest song. 
If this song lives, posterity shall know 
One, tho' in Britain born, with courtiers bred, 
Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late ; 
Nor on his subtle death-bed plann'd his scheme 
For future vacancies in church, or state ; 
Some avocation deeming it — to die ; 
Unbit by rage canine of dying rich ; 
Guilt's blunder ! and the loudest laugh of hell. 
O my coevals ! remnants of yourselves ! 
Poor human ruins, tott'ring o'er the grave ! 
Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees, 
Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling, 
Still more enamour'd of this wretched soil? 
Shall our pale, wither'd hands be still stretch'd out,- 
Trembling, at once, with eagerness and age ? ^ 
With av'rice, and convulsions grasping hard ? 
Grasping at air ! for what has earth beside ? 
Man wants but little ; nor that little, long: 
How soon must he resign his very dust, 
Which frugal nature lent him for an hour! 
Years unexperienc'd rush on num'rous ills ; 
And soon as man, expert from time, has found 
The key of life, it opes the gates of death. 

When in this vale of years I backward look, 
And miss such numbers, numbers too of such, 



284 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

Firmer in health, and greener in their age, 
And stricter on their guard, and fitter far 
To play life's subtle game, I scarce believe 
I still survive : and am I fond of life, 
Who scarce can think it possible I live ? 
Alive by miracle ! if still alive, 
Who long have bury'd what gives life to live* 
Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought. 
Life's lee is not more shallow, than impure, 
And vapid ; sense and reason show the door, 
Call for my bier, and point me to the dust. 

thou great Arbiter of life and death ! 
Nature's immortal, immaterial sun ! 
Whose all-prolific beam late call'd me forth 
From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay 
The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath 
The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, 
To drink the spirit of the golden day, 

And triumph in existence ; and coukl'st know 
No motive, but my bliss ; with Abram's joy, 
Thy call I follow to the land unknown ; 

1 trust in thee, and know in whom I trust: 
Or life, or death, is equal ; neither weighs ; 
All weight in this— O let me live to thee ! 



YOttNW 



SECTION V. 

An address to the Deity. 

God of my life, and Author of my days ! 
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise ; 
And trembling take upon a mortal tongue 
That hallow'd name to harps of seraphs sung : 



Chap. 4. Pathetic Pieces. <285 

Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more 
Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore. 
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere, 
Are equal all, for all are nothing here. 
All nature faints beneath the mighty name, 
Which nature's works, through all her parts, proclaim- 
I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul, 
And breath an awful stillness through my soul: 
As by a charm, the waves of grief subside ; 
Impetuous passions stops her headlong tide. 
At thy felt presence all emotions cease, 
And my hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace ; 
Till ev'ry worldly thought within me dies, 
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes.; 
Till all my sense is lost in infinite, 
And one vast object fills my aching sight. 
But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke ; 
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; 
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, 
And mingles with the dross of earth again. 
But, he, our gracious Master, kind as just, 
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. 
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, 
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclin'd ; 
Marks the young dawn of ev'ry virtuous aim, 
And fans the smoking flax into a flame. 
His ears are open to the softest cry, 
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye i 
He reads the language of a silent tear, 
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. 
Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ; 
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live : 
From each terrestrial bondage set me free j 
Still ev'ry wish that centres net in thee ; 



286 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, 
And point my path to everlasting peace. 

If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads 
By living waters, and thro' flow'ry meads, 
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, 
And vernal beauty paints the flatt'ring scene, 
Oh ! teach me to elude each latent snare, 
And whisper to my sliding heart — Beware ! 
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice, 
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice. 
If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, 
Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way, 
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, 
And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; 
With equal eye my various lot receive, 
Resign'd to die, or resolute to live ; 
Prepar'd to kiss the sceptre or the rod, 
While God is seen in all, and all in God. 

I read his awful name emblazon'd high 
With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky ; 
Nor less the mystic characters I see, 
Wrought in each flow'r, inscrib'd on ev'ry tree : 
In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze, 
I hear the voice of God among the trees. 
With thee in shady solitudes I walk, 
With thee in busy crowded cities talk ; 
In ev'ry creature own thy forming pow'r ; 
In each event thy providence adore : 
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, 
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear controul* 
Thus shall I rest unmov'd by all alarms, 
Secure within the temple of thine arms, 
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, 
And feel myself omnipotent in thee, 



Chap. 4. Pathetic Pieces, 287 

Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, 

And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 

When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate 

I stand and stretch my view to either state ; 

Teach me to quit this transitory scene, 

With decent triumph, and a look serene ; 

Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 

And, having liv'd to thee, in thee to die. barbauxd. 

section VI. 

A monody on the death of lady Lyttkton. 

At length escap'd, from every human eye, 

From evVy duty, ev'ry care, 

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,, 

Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; 

Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring shade, 

This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, 

I now may give my burden' d heart relief, 

And pour forth all my stores of grief ; 
Of grief surpassing ev'ry other woe, 
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love 

Can on th' ennobled mind bestow, 

Exceeds the vulgar joys that move 
Our gross desires, inelegant and low. 

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills, 

Ye high o'ershadowing hills, 
Ye lawns gay-smiling with perpetual green, 

Oft have you my Lucy seen ! 
But never shall you now behold her more : 

Nor will she now, with fond delight, 
And taste refin'd, your rural charms explore. 
Cios'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night, 



288 Sequel to the Eiiglish Reader* Part 2, 

Those beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to shine 
Reason's pure light, and virtue's spark divine. 

In vain I look around, 

O'er all the well-known ground, 
My Lucy's wonted iootsteps to descry; 

Where oft we us'd to walk ; 

Where oft in tender talk, 
We saw the summer sun go down the sky ; 

Nor by yon fountain's eide, 

Nor where its waters glide 
Along the valley, can she now he found ; 
In all the wide-stretchM pros^ect-'s ample bound, 

No more my mournful eye 

Can aught of her espy, 
But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. 

O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ? 

Your bright inhabitant is lost. 
You she prefer'd to all the gay resorts, 
Where female vanity might wish to shine, 
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts. 
Her modest beauties shunn d the public eye : 

To your sequester'd dales 

And flower-embroider'd vales, 
From an admiring world she chose to fly : 
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God, 

The silent paths of wisdom trod, 
And banish'd every passion from her breast; 

But those, the gentlest and the best, 
Whose holy flames, with energy divine, 
The virtuous heart enliven and improve, 
The conjugal and the maternal love* 



Chap. 4. Pathetic Pieces. 289 

Sweet babes ! who, like the little playful fawns, 
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, 
By your delighted mother's side, 
Who now your infant steps shall guide ? 
Ah ! where is now the hand, whose tender care 
To ev'ry virtue would have form'd your youth, 
And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth? 
O loss beyond repair ! 
O wretched father ! left alone, 
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own ! 
How shall thy weaken'd mind oppress'd with woe, 

And, drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, 
Perform the duties that you doubly owe, 
Now she, alas ! is gone, 
From folly and from vice their helpless age to save ? 
Oh ! how each beauty of her mind and face 
Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace ! 
How eloquent in ev'ry look, 
Thro' her expressive eyes, her soul distinctly spoke ! 
How did her manners, by the world refin'd, 
Leave all the taint of modish vice behind, 
And make each charm of polish'd courts agree 
With candid truth's simplicity,. 
And uncorrupted innocence ! 
To great, to more than manly sense, 
She join'd the soft'ning influence 
Of more than female tenderness, 
ow, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy, 
Which oft the care of others' good destroy, 
Her kindly-melting heart, 
To every want and every woe, 
To guilt itself when. in distress, 
The balm of pity would impart, 
And all relief that bounty could bestow! 

Bb 



290 , Sequel to the English Reader '. Part 2. 

E'en for the kid or lamb, that pour'd its life 
Beneath the bloody knife, 
Her gentle tears would fall ; 
Tears, from sweet virtue's source, benevolent to all. 

Not only good and kind, 
But strong and elevated was her mind: 

A spirit that, with noble pride, 

Could look superior down 

On foKcJie's smile or frown ; 
That could, without regret or pain, 
To virtue's lowest duty sacrifice 
Or interest or ambition's highest prize ; 
That, injur'd or offended, never tried 
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain, 
But by magnanimous disdain. 
A wit that, temperately bright, 

With inoffensive light, 

All pleasing shone ; nor ever pass'd 
The decent bounds that wisdom's sober hand, 
And sweet benevolence's mild command, 
And bashful modesty, before it cast. 
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd, 
That nor too little nor too much belie v'd ; 
That scorn'd unjust suspicion's coward fear, 
And, without weakness, knew to be sincere. 
Such Lucy was, when in her fairest days, 
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise. 

In lift's and glory's freshest bloom, 
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the tomb. 

So, where the silent streams of Liris glide. 
In the soft bosom of Campania's vale, 
When now the wint'ry tempests all are fled, 
A.nd genial summer breathes her gentle gale, 
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head ; 



Chap. 4. Pathetic Pieces. 291 

From ev'ry branch the balmy flow'rets rise, 
On ev'ry bough the golden fruits are seen ; 
With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies, 
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian queen : 
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride, 
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows, 
Cold with perpetual snows ; 
The tender- blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and dies* 

best of women ! dearer far to me 

Than when, in blooming life, 

My lips first call'd thee wife ; 
How can mv soul endure the loss of thee? 
How in the world, to me a desert grown, 

Abandon'd and alone, 
Without my sweet companion can I live ? 

Without thy lovely smile, 
The dear reward of every virtuous toil, 
What pleasures now can pall'd ambition give ? 
E'en the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, 
Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could 
raise. 

For my distracted mind 

What succour can I find ? 
On whom for consolation shall I call? 

Support me, ev'ry friend ; 

Your kind assistance lend, 
To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. 

Alas ! each friend of mine, 
My dear departed love, so much was thine, 
That none has any comfort to bestow. 

My books, the best relief 

In ev'ry other grief, 
Are now with vour idea sadden'd all : 

/ 



292 Sequel to the English Reader, Part 2. 

Each favVite author we together read 
My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead. 

We were the happiest pair of human kind : 
The rolling year its various course performed, 

Arid back return'd again; 
Another, and another, smiling came, 
And saw our happiness unchang'd remain. 

Still in her golden chain 
Harmonious concord did our wishes bind : 
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. 

O fatal, fatal stroke ! 
That all this pleasing fabric love had rais'd 

Of rare felicity, 
On which e'en wanton vice with envy gaz'd, 
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form'd, 
With soothing hope for many a future day, 

In one sad moment broke ! 
Yet, O my soul ! thy rising murmur stay ; 
Nor dare th' all-wise Disposer to arraign, 

Or against his supreme decree 

With impious grief complain. 
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, 
Was his most righteous will — and be that will obey'd* 

Would thy fond love his grace to her controul j 
And, in these low abodes of sin and pain, 

Her pure exalted soul, 
Unjustly, for thy partial good, detain ? 
No — rather strive thy grov'lling mind to raise 

Up to that unclouded blaze, 
That heav'nly radiance of eternal light, 
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees, 
How frail, how insecure, how slight, 

Is every mortal bliss j 



Chap, 4. Pathetic Pieces, 293 

Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees 

Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, 
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end, 

It does not to its sovereign good ascend. 
Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, 
And seek those regions of serene delight, 
Whose peaceful path, and ever- open gate, 

No feet but those of harden'd guilt shall miss ; 

There death himself thy Lucy shall restore ; 
There yield up all his pow'r ne'er to divide you more, 

LORD LYTTELTON. 



sba 



/ 

/ 



( 294 ) 



CHAPTER V. 

PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 



SECTION I. 

Hymn to contentment- 

Lovely, lasting peace of mind ! 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heav'nly born, and bred on high, 
To crown the fav'rites of the sky, 
With more of happiness below, 
Than victors in a triumph know ! 
Whither, oh whither art thou fled, 
To lay thy meek contented head ? 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calms and ease ? 

Ambition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there : 
Increasing avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold inshrin'd : 
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way 
Through rocks, amidst the foaming sea, 
To gain thy love ; and ^en perceives 
Thou wert not in the roc*- and waves. 
The silent heart which griet assails, 
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vale$» 
Sees daisies open, rivers run, 
And seeks (as I have vainly done) 
Amusing thought ; but learns to know 
That solitude's the nurse of woe 4 



Chap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 29^ 

No real happiness is found 

In trailing purple o'er the ground j 

Or in a soul exalted high, 

To range the circuit of the sky, 

Converse with stars above, and know 

All nature in its forms below : 

The rest it seeks, in seeking dies ; 

And doubts at last for knowledge rise. 

Lovely, lasting peace, appear ; 
This world itself, if thou art here, 
Is once again with Eden blest, 
And man contains it in his breast. 

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
I sung my wishes to the wood, 
And, lost in thought, no more perceiv'd 
The branches whisper as they wav'd : 
It seem'd as all the quiet place 
Confess'd the presence of the grace ; 
When thus she spoke: — ** Go rule thy will, 
Bid thy wild passions all be still ; 
Know God, and bring thy heart to know 
The joys which from religion flow I 
V en ev'ry grace shall prove its guest, 

id I'll be there to crown the rest." 

Oh! by yonder mossy seat, 

my hours of sweet retreat, 

ight I thus my soul employ, 
r ith sense of gratitude and joy, 
xvais'd as ancient prophets were, 
In heav'nly vision, praise, and pray'r j 
Pleasing all men, hurting none, 
Pleas'd and blest with God alone; 
Then while the gardens take iny sight s 
With all the colours of delight 5 



-296 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2; 

While silver waters glide along, 
To please my ear, and court my song j 
I'll lift my voice and tune my string, 
And thee, Great Source of Nature, sing. 

The sun that walks his airy way, 
To light the world, and give the day ; 
The moon that shines with borrow'd light ; 
The stars that gild the gloomy night ; 
The seas that roll unnumber'd waves ; 
The wood that spreads its shady leaves ; 
The field whose ears conceal the grain, 
The yellow treasure of the plain : 
All of these, and all I see, 
Should be sung, and sung by me : 
They speak their Maker as they can, 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 

Go search among your idle dreams, 
Your busy or your vain extremes ; 
And find a life of equal bliss, 
Or own the next begun in this. 

PARNELL. 
SECTION II. 

An elegy written in a country church-yard* 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, 
And drowsy tinkiings lull the distant folds ; 



Ghap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 2$7 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, 
The moping owl does to the moon complai* 

Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twiti'ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 

Nor children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their teams afield! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await, alike, th' inevitable hour j 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave ; 



298 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Gan storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion eall the fleeting breath? 

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or fiatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or wak'd to testacy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol; 

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 

Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command. 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes. 



Chap, 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 299 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone 

Their growing virtues ; but their crimes confin'd, 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

©r heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
Along the cool sequester' d vale of life 
. They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd mus% 

The place of fame and elegy supply: 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die : 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires : 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 



300 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If, chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain mav say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing, with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

There at the foot of yonder nodding beach, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noon tide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 
Mutt'ritig his wayward fancies, he would rovej 

Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, 
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom 'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree: 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 

The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow thro' the churchyard path we saw him bor 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 



Chap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces* 301 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear ; 

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 

The bosom of his Father and his God. gray. 

section III. 

The deserted village. 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer' d the lab'ring swain : 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd; 
Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please. 
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
How often have I paus'd on ev'ry charm, 
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
For talking age and youthful converse made! 
How often have I bless'd the coming day, 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play ; 
And all the village train, from labour free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,- 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old survey'd ; 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 

c c 



302 



Sequel to the English Reader* Part 2. 



These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence shed ; 
These were thy charms, — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village ! loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
Butchoak'd with sedges, works its weedy way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 
Amidst thy desert walks, the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mould' ring wall ; 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay. 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
W T hen once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When ev'ry rood of ground maintain'd its man; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store ; 
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more: 
His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 



7 T 



But times are alter'd : trade's unfeeling train 
Jsurp the land, and dispossess the swain. 



Chap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 303 

Along the lawn, where scatter' d hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose ; 
And ev'ry want to luxury allied, 
And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, 
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green— 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's pow'r. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds; 
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew % 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wand'rings round this world of care^, 
In all my griefs — and God has giv'n my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bow'rs to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting, by repose : 
I still had hopes for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill; 
Around my fire an ev'ning group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw : 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreat from care, that never must be mine!. 



304 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2, 

How blest is he, who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way; 
And, all his prospects bright'aing to the last, 
His heav'n commences ere the world be past! 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at ev'ning's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; 
The swain, responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind, 
And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled ; 
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
She, wretched matron ! forc'd in age, for bread-. 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 



Chap, 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 305 

To pick her wint'ry fagot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,, 
And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year : 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place. 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r r 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain. 
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims ailow'd: 
The broken soldier kindly bade to. stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder' d his crutch, and show'd how fields were woja, 
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe t 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side : 
But, in his duty prompt at ev'ry call, 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all : 

c c 2 



306 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 3. 

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt her new-fledg'd offspring to the skies ; 
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed, where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
The rev'rend champion stood. At his controul 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last falt'ring accents w T hisper'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks i.dorn'd the venerable place; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway; 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd; 
Their welfare pleas'dhim, and their cares distress'd. 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n; 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n: 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Tho" round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
"Weil had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 



Chap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 307 

Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper circling round 

Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. 

Yet he was kind ; or, if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault. 

The village all declared how much he knew: 

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ; 

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 

In arguing too the parson own'd his skill, 

For e'en tho' vanquish'd he could argue still ; 

While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, 

Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around j 

And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame : the very spot 

Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 

SECTION IV. 

The deserted village continued. 

Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound^ 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive p 1 ice ; 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock thatclick'd behind the door j 
The chf st contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of draw'rs by day; 



308 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2* 

The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; 
The hearth, except when winter chill' d the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flow'rs, and fennel gay; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten in a row. 

Vain transitory splendour ! could not all 
Retrieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple pleasures of the lowly train : 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd ; 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ? 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 



6hap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces., 309 

'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand. 

Between a splendid and a happy land. 

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 

And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; 

Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 

And rich men flock from all the world around ; 

Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name 

That leaves our useful product still the same. 

Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride 

Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 

Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 

Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth ; 

His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green. 

Around the world each needful product flies, 

For all the luxuries the world supplies: 

While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all, 

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 

Secure to please, while youth confirms her reign, 

Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 

Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 

But when those charms are past, (for charms are frail,*) 

When time advances, and when lovers fail, 

She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 

In all the glaring impotence of dress: 

Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, 

In nature's simplest charms at first array'd ; 

But, verging to decline, its splendours rise, 

Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 

While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land, 

The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 



310 Sequel to the English Reader. Part % 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave ! 

Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If, to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 

4 

And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, 
Extorted from his fellow creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign 
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah, turn thine eyes 
Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. 
She, once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest j 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 
Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; 
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the show'r,. 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 



Chap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 311 

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 

Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 

E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 

At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah no ! to distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through horrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far diff'rent there from all that charm'd before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey ; 
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they : 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 

Alas ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, 
That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past, 
Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their last, 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, 
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep ! 
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe : 



312 Sequel to the English Reader, Part 2. 

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his hapless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And bless'd the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose ; 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasp'd them close in sorrow doubly dear ; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief, 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

luxury ! thou curst by Heav'n's decree, 
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 

At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the bus'ness of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, 

1 see the rural virtues leave the land. 

Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the sail, 
That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness, are there : 
And piety with wishes plac'd above, 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 



Qhap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces* 3 13 

And thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid, 

Still first to fly when sensual joys invade ; 

Unfit in these degen'rate times of shame 

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ! 

Thou source of bliss as well as source of woe, 

Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 

Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 

Thou source of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well ! 

Farewell! and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 

On Torrio's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 

Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 

Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain, 

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 

Teach him that states, of native strength possest, 

Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 

As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; 

While self-dependent pow'r can time defy, 

As rocks resist the billows and the sky. goldsmith. 

section v. 

The Traveller : or, a prospect of society. 

Inscribed to the Author's Brother. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wand'ring Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; 

d d 



314 Sequel to the English Reader. Part %* 

Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste, expanding to the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untravell'd, fondly turns to thee : 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a length'ning chain. 

Perpetual blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ! 
Bless'd be that spot where cheerful guests retire, 
To pause from toil, and trim their evning fire : 
Bless'd that abode where want and pain repair, 
And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair : 
Bless'd be those feasts, with^simple plenty crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family around - 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good ! 

But me, not destin'd such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wand'ring spent, and care j 
Impell'd with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view ; 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet as I follow flies ; 
Me fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And plac'd on high, above the storm's career, 
Look downward where an hundred realms appear ; 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine ? 



Chap, 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 315 

Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? 

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 

These little things are great to little man ; 

And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 

Exults in all the good of all mankind. 

Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd; 

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round j 

Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 

Ye bending swains that dress the flow'ry vale ; 

For me your tributary stores combine ; 

Creation's heir! the world, the world is mine ! 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er ;. 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ; 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleas'd with each good that Heav'n to man supplies ; 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small; 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
Some spot to real happiness consign'd ; 
Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct when all pretend to know l 
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease : 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine ; 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 



316 Sequel to the English Reader, Part 2. 

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam ; 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As diff'rent good, by art or nature giv'n, 
To diff'rent nations, makes their blessings ev'n. 
Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call. 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs, as Arno's shelvy side j 
And tho' the rocky-crested summits frown, 
These rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
From arts more various are the blessings sent, 
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content; 
Yet these each other's pow'r so strong contest 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails ; 
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
Hence ev'ry state, to one lov'd blessing prone, 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
Till carried to excess in each domain, 
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 
But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 
Here, for a while, my proper cares resign'd, 
Here let me sit, in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry blast. 
Far to the right, where Apennine ascends^, 
Bright as the summer Italy extends 



Chap* 5. Promiscuous Pieces, 317 

Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in diff'rent climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die : 
These here disporting, own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows ;• 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear; 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain : 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue , 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date, 
When commerce proudly flourished through the state : 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies; 
The canvass giow'd beyond e'en nature warm ; 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form ; 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display 'd her sail ; 

D d % 



318 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari 2, 

While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave : 
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride: 
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
The pasteboard triumph, and the cavalcade ; 
Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd ; 
The sports of children satisfy the child. 
Each nobler aim repress'd by long controul, 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; 
While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the mind ; 
As in those domes where Cesars once bore sway, 
Defae'd by time, and tott'ring in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

SECTION VI. 

The Traveller continued. 

My soul, turn from them — turn we to survey 

Where roughest climes a nobler race display; 

Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 

And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; 

No product here the barren hills afford, 

But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 



&hap* 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 319 

No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May j 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
Yet still e'en here content can spread a charm, 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast tho' small, 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose, 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his vent'rous plough-share to the steep ; 
Or seeks the den where snow- tracks mark the way, 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped, 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed j 
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; 
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those Hills that round his mansion rise, 
Enhance the oliss his scanty fund su-pplks* 
Dear is that shed 10 which -his soui conrorms, 
And dear that hiii which lilts him to the s as '■;.. 



320 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast ; 
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd : 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd. 
Yet let them only share the praises due ; 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few: 
For ev'ry want that stimulates the breast 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 
Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy; 
Unknown those pow'rs that raise the soul to flame^ 
Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a mould'ring fire, 
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire ; 
Unfit for raptures ; or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till buried in debauch the bliss expire. 
But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow ; 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low : 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son, 
Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run ; 
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart 
Falls blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit like falcons cow'ring on the nest : 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Thro' life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way j 
These, far dispers'd, on tim'rous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 



k 



Chap, 5. Promiscuous Pieces. $21 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn — and France displays her bright domain. 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please ; 
How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murm'ring Loire! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And, freshen'd from the wave, the" zephyr flew; 
And haply, tho' my harsh touch falt'ring still, 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill, 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous pow'r, 
And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour ! 
Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 
Have led their children thro' the mirthful maze ; 
And the gay grandsire, skill' d in gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 
So gay a life these thoughtless realms display ; 

Thus idly busy rolls their world away. 

Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear; 

For honour forms the social temper here. 

Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 

Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 

Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, 

It shifts in splendid traffic round the land. 

From courts to camps, to cottages, it strays, 

And all are taught an avarice of praise : 

They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem ; 

Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 
But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 

It gives their follies also room to rise ; 

For praise too dearly lov'd or warmly sought, 

Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; 

And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 

Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 



322 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart j 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper-lace j 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year : 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land ; 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore ; 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
Are here display'd. Their much-iov'd wealth imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts : 
But, view them closer, craft and fraud appear j 
E'en liberty itself is barter'd here. 



Chap, S. Promiscuous Pieces, 323 

At gold's superior charms all freedom flies; 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys : 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves ; 
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
O ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ; 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow : 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide. 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentle music melts on ev'ry spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd ; 
Extremes are only in the master's mind! 
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, 
With daring aims irregularly great: 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human-kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band ; 
By forms unfashion'd fresh from nature's hand; 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
True to imagin'd right, above controul ; 
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 
Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here, 
Thine are those charms, that dazzle and endear: 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy, 
But foster'd e'en by freedom ills annoy. 
That independence Britons prize too high, 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 



324 Stquel to the English Reader, Part 2. 

The self-dependent lordlings stand alone ; 

All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. 

Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 

Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ; 

Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 

Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore ; 

Till, over- wrought, the gen'ral system feels 

Its motion stop, or phrenzy fires the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 

As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 

Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 

Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 

Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 

And talents sink, and merit weeps unknown; 

Till time may come, when, stripp'd of ail her charms, 

The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 

Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 

Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 

One sink of level avarice shall lie, 

And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 

Yet think not thus, when freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great. 
Ye pow'rs of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel j 
Thou transitory flow'r, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favour's fost'ring sun, 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure; 
I only would repress them, to secure : 
For just experience tells, in ev'ry soil, 
That those who think must govern those who toil ; 
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each : 



Qhap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 325 

Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

then, how blind to all that truth requires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast-approaching danger warms: 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal pow'r to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 

To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillag'd from slaves, to purchase slaves at home ; 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, 
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, 

1 fly from petty tyrants, to the throne. 

Ah, brother! how disastrous was that hour, 
When first ambition struck at regal pow'r ; 
And thus, polluting honour in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force ! 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore ; 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste ; 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern depopulation in her train ; 
And over fields, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
In barren, solitary pomp repose ? 
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling long-frequented village fall ? 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 

e e 



326 Sequel to the English Reader* Part 2. 

Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train ; 
To traverse climes beyond the western main ; 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound ? 
E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Thro' tangled forests, and thro' dang'rous ways j 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise, 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. 
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind ! 
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows ? 
In ev'ry government, though terrors reign, 
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 
Still to ourselves in ev'ry place consign'd, 
Our own felicity we make or find : 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy; 
The lifted ax, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, 
To men remote from pow'r but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 

GOLDSMITH. 



Chap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 327 

SECTION VII. 

The vanity of human wishes. 

Let observation, with extensive view, 
Survey mankind from China to Peru ; 
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, 
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life ; 
Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, 
O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, 
Where wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous pride, 
To tread the dreary paths without a guide, 
As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude, 
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good. 
How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, 
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice : 
How nations sink by darling schemes opprest, 
When vengeance listens to the fool's request. 
Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afflictive dart, 
Each gift of nature, and each grace of art ; 
With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, 
With fatal sweetness elocution flows ; 
Impeachment stops the speaker's pow'rful breath, 
And restless fire precipitates on death. 

But, scarce observ'd, the knowing and the bold 
Fall in the gen'ral massacre of gold ; 
Wide-wasting pest ! that rages unconfin'd, 
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind ! 
For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, 
For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws ; 
Wealth heap'd on wealth nor truth nor safety buys ; 
The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 

Lethist'ry tell, where rival kings command, 
And dubious title shakes the madden'd land, 



328 Sequel to the English Reader. Part?* 

When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, 
How much more safe the vassal than the lord. 
Low skulks the hind beneath the rage of pow'r, 
And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tow'r ; 
Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound, 
Tho' confiscation's vultures hover round. 
The needy traveller, serene and gay, 
Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away. 
Does envy seize thee? crush th' upbraiding joy, 
Increase his riches, and his peace destroy. 
Now fears in dire vicissitude invade ; 
The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade : 
Nor light nor darkness brings his pain relief, 
One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief. 

Yet still one gen'ral cry the skies assails, 
And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales : 
Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care, \ 
Th' insidious rival, and the gaping heir. 

Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, 
With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth ; 
See motley life in modern trappings drest, 
And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest : 
Thou who couldst laugh where want enchain'd caprice, 
Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece ; 
Where wealth unlov'd without a mourner died j 
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate, 
Or seen a new made mayor's unwieldy state ; 
Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws 1 , 
And senates heard before they judg'd a cause: 
How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe, 
Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe! 
Attentive, truth and nature to descry, 
And pierce each scene with philosophic eye. 



Chap. £. Promiscuous Pieces. 329 

To thee were solemn toys or empty show, 
The robes of pleasure and the veils of woe : 
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, 
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain* 
Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind, 
Renew'd at ev'ry glance on human kind : 
How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, 
Search ev'ry state, and canvass ev'ry pray'r. 

Unnumber'd suppliants crowd preferment's gate, 
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great ; 
Delusive fortune hears th' incessant call; 
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. 
On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend, 
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end. 
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door 
Pours in the morning worshipper no more ; 
For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, 
To growing wealth the dedicator flies ; 
From ev'ry room descends the painted face, 
That hung the bright palladium of the place ; 
And, smok'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold, 
To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
For now no more we trace in ev'ry line 
Heroic worth, benevolence divine : 
The form distorted justifies the fall, 
And detestation rids th' indignant wall. 

But will not Britain hear the last appeal, 
Sign her foes' doom, or guard her fav'rites' zeal? 
Thro' freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings, 
Degrading nobles and controling kings ; 
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, 
And ask no questions but the price of votes; 
With weakly libels and septennial ale, 
Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 

e e 2 



330 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

In full blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, 
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : 
To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign, 
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine ; 
Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows, 
His smile alone security bestows : 
Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r ; 
Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r; 
Till conquest unresisted ceas'd to please, 
And rights submitted left him none to seize. 
At length his sov'reign frowns — the train of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. 
Where-e'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye, 
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly : 
Now drops at once the pride of awful state, 
The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate, 
The regal palace the luxurious board, 
The liv'ried army, and the menial lord. 
With age, with cares, with maladies opprest, 
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings, 
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 

Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine, 
Shall Wolsey's wealth with Wolsey's end be thine ? 
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, 
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent? 
For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, 
On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight ? 
Why but to sink, beneath misfortune's blow, 
With louder ruin to the gulfs below? 

What gave great Villiers to th' assassin's knife, 
And fix'd disease on Harlcy's closing life ? 
What murder'd Wentworth, and what exil'd Hyde, 
Py kings protected, and to kings ally'd ? 



Chap, 5. Promiscuous Pieces, 331 

What but their wish indulg'd in courts to shine, 
And pow'r too great to keep, or to resign ? 

When first the college rolls receive his name, 
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ; 
Resistless burns the fever of renown, 
Caught from the strong contagion of the gown: 
O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, 
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. 
Are these thy views? proceed, illustrious youth, 
And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth \ 
Yet should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat, 
Till captive science yields her last retreat ; 
Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray, 
And pour on misty doubt resistless day ; 
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, 
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain, 
And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ; 
Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, 
Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart ; 
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, 
Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ; 
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, 
Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee : 
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, 
And pause a while from learning, to be wise ; 
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. - 
See nations slowly wise, and meanly just, 
To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
If dreams yet natter, once again attend, 
Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end. 

Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows, 
The glitt'ring eminence exempt from foes ; 






332 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2. 

See, when the vulgar 'scapes, despis'd or aw'd, 
Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud, 
From meaner minds, tho' smaller fines content, 
The plunder'd palace or sequester'd rent ; 
Mark'd out by dang'rous parts he meets the shock, 
And fatal learning leads him to the block : 
Around his tomb let art and genius weep, 
3ut hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. 



SECTION VIII. 

The vanity of human wishes continued. 

The festal blazes, the triumphal show, 
The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe, 
The senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale, 
With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd, 
For such the steady Romans shook the world ; 
For such in distant lands the Britons shine, 
And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine : 
This pow'r has praise, that virtue scarce can warm, 
Till fame supplies the universal charm. 
Yet reason frowns on war's unequal game, 
Where wasted nations raise a single name, 
And mortgaged states their grandsires wreaths regret, 
From age to age in everlasting debt ; 
Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right convey 
To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 

On what foundation stands the: warrior's pride, 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide j 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 



€hap, £. Promiscuous Pieces* 333 

G'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 

Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 

Behold surrounding kings their pow'r combine, 

And one captitulate, and one resign ; 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; 

" Think nothing gairt'd," he cries, " till naught remain, 

" On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 

" And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 

The march begins in military state, 

And nations on his eye suspended wait; 

Stern famine guards the solitary coast, 

And winter barricades the realms of frost ; 

He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay ;— 

Hide,4>lushmg glory, hide Pultowa's day ! 

The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, 

And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 

Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait, 

While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 

But did not chance at length her error mend ? 

Did no subverted empire mark his end? 

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, 

Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 

His fall was destin'd to a barren strand, 

A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 

He left the name, at which the world grew pale, 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

L All times their scenes of pompous woes afford, 

From Persia's tyrant, to Bavaria's lord. 

In gay hostility, and barb'rous pride, 

With half mankind embatded at his side, 

Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey^ 

And starves exhausted regions in his way ; 



334 Sequel to the English Reader* Part % 

Attendant flatt'ry counts his myriads o'er, 

Till counted myriads sooth his pride no more ; 

Fresh praise is tried till madness fires his mind, 

The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind ; 

New pow'rs are claim'd, new pow'rs are still bestow*^ 

Till rude resistance lops the spreading god ; 

The daring Greeks deride the martial show, 

And heap their vallies with the gaudy foe ; 

Th' insulted sea with humbler thoughts he gains, 

A single skiff to speed his flight remains : 

Th' encumber'd oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast 

Through purple billows and a floating host. 

The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour, 
Tries the dread summits of Cesarean pow'r, 
With unexpected legions bursts away, 
And sees defenceless realms receive his sway ; 
Short sway ! fair Austria spreads her mournful charms, 
The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms ; 
From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze 
Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise : 
The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar, 
With all the sons of ravage crowd the war ; 
The baffled prince, in honour's flatt'ring bloom 
Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom, 
His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame, 
And steals to death from anguish and from shame. 

Enlarge my life with multitude of days, 
£a health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays : 
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know,. 
That life protracted is protracted woe. 
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, 
And shuts up all the passages of joy : 
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, 
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r — 



Chap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces* 335 

With listless eyes the dotard views the store, 

He views, and wonders that they please no more ; 

Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines, 

And luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 

Approach ye minstrels, try the soothing strain, 

Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain: 

No sounds, alas ! would touch th' impervious ear, 

Though dancing mountains witness'd Orpheus near ; 

Nor lute nor lyre his feeble pow'rs. attend, 

Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend : 

But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue. 

Perversely grave, or positively wrong. 

The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest, 

Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'd guest ; 

While growing hopes scarce awe the gath'ring sneer. 

And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear ; 

The watchful guests still hint the last offence. 

The daughter's petulance, the son's expense ; 

Improve his heady rage with treach'rous skill, 

And mould his passions till they make his will. 

Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade, 

Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade ; 

But unextinguish'd av'rice still remains, 

And dreaded losses aggravate his pains : 

He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands, 

His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands ; 

Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, 

Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. 

But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime 
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; 
An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay, 
And glides in modest innocence away ; 
Whose peaceful day benevolence endears, 
Whose night congratulating conscience cheers ; 



336 Sequel to the English Reader, Fart 2. 

The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend : 
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end ? 
Yet e'en on this her load misfortune flings, 
To press the weary minutes' flagging wings : 
New sorrow rises as the day returns, 
A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. 
Now kindred merit fills the sable bier, 
Now lacerated friendship claims a tear. 
Year chases year, decay pursues decay, 
Still drops some joy from with'ring life away: 
New forms arise, and different views engage, 
Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage ; 
Till pitying nature signs the last release, 
- And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 

But few there are whom hours like these await, 
Who set unclouded in the gulfs of fate. 
From Lydia's monarch should the search descend, 
By Solon caution'd to regard his end, 
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, 
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ! 
From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, 
And Swift expires a driv'ler and a show. 

The teeming mother anxious for her race, 
Begs for each birth the fortune of a face : 
Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring ; 
And Sedley curs'd the form that pleas'd a king. 
Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, 
Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; 
Whom joys with soft varieties invite, 
By day the frolic, and the dance by night ; 
Who frown with vanity, who smile with art, 
And ask the latest fashion of the heart j 
What care, what rules your heedless charms shall save, 
Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave ? 



Chap, .5. Promiscuous Pieces* 337 

Against your fame with fondness hate combines, 
The rival batters, and the lover mines. 
With distant voice neglected virtue calls ; 
Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls ; 
Tir'd with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry rein. 
And pride and prudence take her seat in vain. 
In crowd at once, where none the pass defend, 
The harmless freedom, and the private friend. 
The guardians yield, by force superior ply'd, 
To int'rest, prudence ; and to flatt'ry, pride. 
Here beauty falls betray'd, despis'd, distrest ; 
And hissing infamy proclaims the rest. 

Where then shall hope and fear their objects find ? 
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind 1 
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate ! 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ? 
Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain 
Which Heav'n may hear ; nor deem religion vain* 
Still raise for good the supplicating voice ; 
But leave to Heav'n the measure and the choice. 
Safe in his pow'r whose eyes discern afar 
The secret ambush of a specious pray'r, 
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, 
Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best. 
Yet when the sense of Sacred Presence fires, 
And strong devotion to the skies aspires, 
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, 
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd ; 
For love, which scarce collective man can fill : 
For patience, sov' reign o'er transmuted ill ; 
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, 
Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat : 

Ff 



.338 Sequel to fixe English Reader. Part 2. 

These goods for man the laws of Heav'n ordain, 
These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain ; 
With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, 
And makes the happiness she does not find. 

DR. JOHNSON. 



APPENDIX : 

CONTAINING 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 

OF 

The Authors mentioned in the 

" INTRODUCTION TO THE ENGLISH READER," 

« THE ENGLISH READER" ITSELF, 

AND THE 

« SEQUEL TO THE READER." 

i 

WITH 

OCCASIONAL STRICTURES 

ON 

THEIR WRFIIJVGS. 



APPENDIX. 



Addison, Joseph, one of the most celebrated men 
in English literature, was born in the year 1672. Af- 
ter receiving the rudiments of his education at different 
schools, he was admitted into Queen's College, Oxford. 
In 1693, he took his degree of Master of Arts, and 
was eminent for his Latin poetry. He distinguished 
himself by several small pieces ; and in 1699, obtained 
from king William, a pension of 3001. a year, to enable 
him to travel. He went leisurely through France and 
Italy, improving his mind to the best advantage ; as ap- 
pears from his " Letter to Lord Halifax," esteemed 
the most elegant of his poetical performances; and 
his " Travels in Italy." 

His celebrated " Campaign," procured him the ap- 
pointment of a commissioner of appeals. In 1706 he 
was made under-secretary to the secretary of state ; and 
in 1709, the Marquis of Wharton being appointed Lord 
Lieutenant of Ireland, took Addison with him, as his 
chief secretary. In 1716 he married the countess 
dowager of Warwick. This marriage neither found 
nor made the parties equal: and Addison has left 
behind him no encouragement for ambitious love. 
In 1717, he rose to his highest elevation, being made 
secretary of state to George the First. His insupe- 
rable diffidence, and his want of talent for puolic 

if 2 



342 APPENDIX. 

speaking, joined to his declining health, induced him 
soon afterwards to solicit his dismission from office. 
This was granted, with a pension of 15001. a year. 

He had for some time been afflicted with an asthma- 
tic disorder, which ended in the dropsy. He employ- 
ed the leisure of his closing life, in supporting those re- 
ligious principles, which had accompanied the whole 
course of it. He drew up a " Defence of the Chris- 
tian Religion," which was published in an unfinished 
state after his death. When all hopes of prolonging 
life were at an end, Addison sent for a young man, 
nearly related to him, (supposed to have been his step- 
son the earl of Warwick,) and grasping his hand, said 
to him with tender emphasis, u See in what peace a 
Christian can die." He expired in 1719, in the 48th 
year of his life. 

The writings of Addison are, chiefly, poetical, crit- 
ical, and moral. He had a large share in the Tatler, 
Spectator, Guardian, and other periodical works. His 
Hymns are much admired for their ease, elegance, and 
harmony, as well as for the cheerful and correct strain of 
piety that pervades them. " The Spectator" stands 
at the head of all publications of a similar kind. With 
the happiest combination of seriousness and ridicule, 
these papers discuss the smaller morals and the decencies 
©f life, elegance and justness of taste, the regulation of 
temper, and the improvement of domestic society. In 
some of them, Addison takes the higher tone of a re- 
ligious monitor. All the enchantments of fancy, and 
all the cogency of argument, are employed to recom- 
mend to the reader his real interest, the care of pleasing 
the Author of his being. His papers in " The Spec- 
tator," are marked by some one of the letters com- 
posing CLia. The popularity of this work rose 



APPENDIX. 34$ 

tfl such a height, that, in a much less reading age than 
the present, twenty thousand of the papers were some* 
times sold in a day. 

As a poet, Addison claims a high praise, though not 
the highest. Generally elegant, sometimes strong, and 
frequently ingenious, he has but little of that vivid 
force and sublime conception, which characterise a poet 
of the first rank : nor has he that fine polish and daz- 
zling brilliance, which give a title to an exalted place, 
in the second. It is from his own original vein of hu- 
mour, and of ingenious invention, displayed in his peri- 
odical works, that Addison derives his highest and most 
durable literary fame. As a model of English prose, 
his writings merit the greatest praise. " Whoever," 
says Dr. Johnson, " wishes to attain an English style, 
familiar, but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, 
must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison," 

Akenside, Mark, an English poet and physician, 
was born at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, in 1721. His fa- 
ther was a substantial butcher, who gave his son a libe- 
ral education, intending to qualify him for the office of 
a dissenting minister. The son, however, preferred the 
study of physic, and in 1744 took the degree of Doctor. 

In this year appeared his capital poem, "On the Plea- 
sures of the Imagination;" which was received with 
great applause, and at once raised the author to poeti- 
cal fame. In 1745, he published ten odes, on different 
subjects, and in a style and manner much diversified. 
These works characterised him as a zealous votary of 
Grecian philosophy and classical literature, and an ar- 
dent lover of liberty. 

He wrote several medical treatises, which increased his 



344 APPENDIX. 

practice and reputation. But it is said he had a haugh- 
tiness and ostentation of manner, which were not cal- 
culated to ingratiate him with his brethren of the facul- 
ty, or to render him generally acceptable. He died of 
a putrid fever, in 1770, in the 49th year of his age. 

The rank which Akenside holds among the English 
classics, is principally owing to his didactic poem, on 
the " Pleasures of the Imagination," a work finished at 
three-and-twenty, and which his subsequent perform- 
ances never equalled. Its foundation is the elegant, and 
even poetical papers, on the same subject, by Addison, 
in the Spectata^; but he has so expanded the plan, and 
enriched the illustrations from the stores of philosophy 
and poetry, that it would be injurious to deny him the 
claim of an original writer. No poem of so elevated 
and abstracted a kind was ever so popular. It is thought 
by some persons of fine taste, to be the most beautiful 
didactic poem that ever adorned the English language. 

Armstrong, John, a poet and physician, was born 
in Scotland, about the year 1709. He studied in the uni- 
versity of Edinburgh ; and took his degree with repu- 
tation, in 1732. He settled in London, where he appear- 
ed in the double capacity of author and physician: but his 
success in the former, as has frequently been the case, 
seems to have impeded his progress in the latter. He 
wrote several small pieces, both in prose and verse. But 
his reputation, as a poet, is almost solely founded on his 
"Art of preserving Health;" for his other pieces scarcely 
rise above mediocrity. This may well rank among the 
first didactic poems in the English language. Though that 
class of poetry is not of the highest order, yet the variety 



APPENDIX, 3&5 

incident to his subject, has given him the opportunity of 
displaying his powers on some of the most elevated and 
interesting topics ; and they are found fully adequate to 
the occasion. The work is adopted into the body of 
English classics, and has often been printed, both sepa- 
rately and in collections. 

His last publication was a pamphlet entitled "Medical 
Essays ;" in which he complains of his literary critics. 
He died in 1779, leaving considerable savings from a 
very moderate income. 

Be att IE, James, a philosopher and poet, was bora 
in Scotland, in the year 1735. After the requisite preli- 
minary acquisitions in his neighbourhood, he repaired 
to New Aberdeen, and went through a regular course 
of study in the university established there. His first 
publication was a volume of " Original Poems and 
Translations," which appeared in 1760. The "Judgment 
of Paris," was published in 1765. These poetical effu- 
sions, especially the beautiful piece called " The Her- 
mit," obtained for him great applause. 

This very distinguished writer occupied^ in early life, 
the humble station of an usher in a grammar school. 
Whilst in that situation, he wrote his celebrated work, 
entitled "The Minstrel; or the Progress of Genius:" 
part of which appeared in 1771* The elegance and 
feeling which characterize this poem, cause regret that 
it was never finished, according to the author's views. 
His merit became so conspicuous that the magistrates 
of New Aberdeen elected the assistant of their gram- 
mar school, to the honourable and distinguished office 
<»f Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in their 
University. 



346 



APPENDIX. 



Not long after this event, he published an " Essay 
on the Immutability of Truth, in Opposition to Sophis- 
try and Scepticism." This worlt demonstrated him to 
be an anxious promoter of the best interests of mankind; 
a judicious philosopher; and a pertinent and captivat- 
ing reasoner. It extended his reputation, and enlarged 
the circle of his friends : amongst whom may be reck- 
oned Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh, the earl of Mansfield, 
Dr. Johnson, lord Lyttelton, and doctors Hurd and 
Porteus, the bishops of Worcester and London. 

In 1783, he published " Dissertations Moral and 
Critical," in one volume, quarto ; and in 1786, at the 
recommendation of the present bishop of London, 
" Evidences of the Christian Religion, , ' in two small 
volumes. In 1790 and 1793, appeared " The Elements 
of Moral Science," in two volumes octavo. All these 
works display good sense, extensive knowledge, and 
able reasoning. Dr. Beattie's ill state of health dis- 
qualified him for some time before his death, from per- 
forming the duties of his office in the university. He 
died in 1803, in the 68th year of his age. 

Dr. Beattie possessed a vigorous understanding and a 
most benevolent heart. His talents were improved to a 
high degree, by almost every species of science and 
literature. He had deeply studied the evidence on which 
the truth of Christianity rests ; and the result was, an 
unshaken persuasion of its Divine original. This induced 
him to labour zealously to convince others of what he 
himself so firmly believed and so highly appreciated. 

His poetical talents were very considerable : and had 
he continued to cultivate them, in advanced life, he 
would probably have attained still higher celebrity. 
But there is reason to suppose that he long neglected 
the mountain of " Olympus" for the hill of " Zion," 



APPENDIX. 347 

and was more anxious to attain the character of a 
christian hero, than that of the greatest of modern 
bards. 

Berkley, George, the celebrated bishop of Cloyne, 
was born in Ireland, in 1684. He possessed a most com- 
prehensive and acute mind, which received all the aids 
of education. His first essays as a writer were published 
in the Spectator and Guardian ; which entertaining 
works he adorned with many pieces in favour of virtue 
and religion. He published several very ingenious 
treatises on philosophical subjects ; the most celebrated 
of which, is his " Minute Philosopher." 

He conceived a noble and benevolent plan for con- 
verting the savage Americans to Christianity, by a col- 
lege to be erected in the Summer Islands, otherwise 
called the Isles of Bermuda. But the design, after se- 
veral years labour to accomplish it, was frustrated by 
the ignorance or misconduct of those on whom he de- 
pended for support. He died, suddenly, in 1 753, at Ox- 
ford ; and was buried in Christ church, where there is 
a monument erected to his memory. 

His morality, religion, manners, and disposition, 
were equal to his extraordinary abilities. Pope, by whom 
he was well known, sums up his character in one line. 
After mentioning some particular virtues, which cha- 
racterized other prelates then living, he ascribes 

" To Berkley ev'ry virtue under heav'n." 

Blair, Dr. Hugh, was born in Edinburgh, in the 
year 1718. After the usual grammatical course at school, 
he entered the humanity Class in the Universitv of 






348 APPENDIX. 

Edinburgh ; and spent eleven years at that celebrated 
seminary, assiduously employed in literary and scien- 
tific studies. He was ordained as a minister in 1742; 
and comenced his public life with highly favourable 
prospects. Besides the testimony given to his talents 
and virtues, by successive ecclesiastic promotions, the 
University of St. Andrews, in 1757, conferred on him 
the degree of D. D. a literary honour which, at that 
time, was very rare in Scotland. In 1762, the king 
erected and endowed a Professorship of Rhetoric and 
Belles Lettres, in the University of Edinburgh; and 
appointed Dr. Blair, " in consideration of his approv- 
ed qualifications," Regius Professor, with a suitable 
salary. His lectures were well attended, and received 
with great applause. In 1783, when he retired from the 
labours of the office, he published his " Lectures on 
Rhetoric and Belles Lettres :" and the general voice of 
the public has pronounced them to be a most judicious, 
elegant, and comprehensive system of rules, for form- 
ing the style, and cultivating the taste of youth. 

It was long before he could be induced to favour the 
world with the publication of his discourses from the 
pulpit. These elegant compositions experienced a degree 
of success, of which few publications can boast. They 
are universally admitted to be models in their kind : 
and they will long remain durable monuments of the 
piety, the genius, and sound judgment of their author. 
They circulated rapidly and widely, wherever the En- 
glish tongue extends ; and they were soon translated 
into almost all the languages of Europe. The king 
thought them worthy of a public reward ; and confer- 
red on their author a pension of 2001. a year, which 
continued unaltered till his death. 



APPENDIX* 349 

in 1748 he married an excellent woman, possessed of 
great sense and merit. By her he had a son who died 
in infancy ; and a daughter, who lived to her twenty- 
first year, the joy of her parents, and adorned with all 
the accomplishments that become her age and sex. He 
lost his wife a few years before his death, after she had, 
with the tenderest affection, shared in all his fortunes, 
and contributed near half a century to his comfort and 
happiness. 

His last summer was devoted to the preparation of the 
fifth volume of his sermons ; and, in the course of it, he 
exhibited a vigour of understanding, and capacity of exer- 
tion, equal to the powers of his best days. But the seeds 
of a mortal disease were lurking unperceived within him. 
At the close of the year 1SOO, he felt that he was ap- 
proaching the end of his course. He, however, retained 
to the last moment the full possession of his mental 
faculties ; and expired with the composure and hope 
which become a Christian pastor. 

" Dr. Blair was the perfect image of that meekness, 
simplicity, gentleness, and contentment, which his writ- 
ings recommend. He was eminently distinguished, 
through life, by the prudence, purity, and dignified pro- 
priety of his conduct. His mind, by constitution and 
culture, was admirably formed for enjoying happiness. 
Well-balanced in itself, by the nice proportion and ad- 
justment of its faculties, it did not incline him to any of 
those eccentricities, either of opinion or of action, which 
are too often the lot of genius, He was long happy in 
his domestic relations; and, though doomed at last to 
feel, through their loss in succession, the heaviest strokes 
of affliction ; yet his mind, fortified by religious habks* 
and buoyed up by his native tendency to contentment^ 
sustained itself on Divine Providence, and enabled him 

G 5 



350 APPENDIX. 

to persevere to the end, in the active and cheerful dis- 
charge of the duties of his station ; preparing for the 
world the blessings of elegant instruction ; tendering to 
the mourner the lessons of Divine consolation ; guiding 
the young by his counsels ; aiding the meritorious with 
his influence ; and supporting, by his voice and by his 
conduct, the best interests of his country." 

Cicero, Marcus Tullius, an illustrious Roman ora- 
tor and philosopher, was born 105 years before the 
Christian era. Whether we consider him as an orator, 
a statesman, or a philosopher, he appears to have been 
one of the greatest men of antiquity. After having 
served his country, in an eminent degree, he was assas- 
sinated by the orders of Antony, his inveterate enemy. 
He was distinguished by great powers of mind, which 
were cultivated to the highest pitch. He had many 
virtues; but they were obscured by an excessive yanity s 
which can be palliated but little by the principles and 
the manners of the age in which he lived. 

His dialogues on Old Age, and on Friendship, are 
extremely elegant and agreeable pieces of moral writ- 
ing ; and hi* orations are perfect models, in that species 
of composition. 

Cotton, Nathaniel. Of his family, birth-place, and 
education, there are no written memorials. He was 
bred to the profession of physic, in which he took the 
degree of doctor. He settled as a physician at St. Albans, 
J.n Hertfordshire, where he acquired great reputation in 
;-his profession, and continued to reside till his death. In 
the latter part of his life, he kept a house for the recep- 
tion of lunatics* 



APPENDIX. 351 

In 1751, he published his a Visions in verse, for the 
Entertainment and Instruction of Younger Minds." 
This publication was favourably received by the polite 
and religious world. His " Visions" are the most pop- 
ular of his productions, and not inferior to the best 
compositions, of that nature, in the English language. 
His " Fables" approach the manner of Gay ; but they 
h-ave less poignancy of satire. 

Of his miscellaneous poems, " The fire Side," is the 
most agreeable. The subject is universally interesting; 
the sentiments are pleasing and pathetic j and the ver- 
sification elegant and harmonious. The verses " To 
a Child five years old," are exquisitely beautiful. The 
" Ode on the New Year," is pious, animated, and 
poetical. His lighter pieces are not deficient in ease 
and sprightliness, and may be read with pleasure. 

Cotton died at St. Albans in 1788, and in an ad- 
vanced age. His moral and intellectual character ap- 
pears to have been, in a high degree, amiable and re- 
spectable. His writings are distinguished by strong 
marks of piety T learning, taste, and benevolence. As 
a poet, his compositions are marked by a refined ele- 
gance of sentiment, and a correspondent simplicity of 
expression. He writes with ease and correctness, fre- 
quently with elevation and spirit. His thoughts are 
just and pure. As piety predominated in his mind, it 
is diffused over his compositions. Under his direction, 
poetry may be truly said to be subservient to religious 
and moral instruction. Every reader will regard, with 
veneration, the writer who condescended to lay aside 
the scholar and the philosopher, to compose moral apo- 
logues, and little poems of devotion, " for the enter- 
tainment and instruction of younger minds," 



£52 APPENDIX. 

Cowper, William, an English poet of great cele- 
brity, was born at Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, in 
the year 1731. In his infancy he was extremely deli- 
cate ; and his constitution discovered, at a very early 
season, that morbid tendency to diffidence, melan- 
choly, and despair, which produced as he advanced in- 
years, periodical fits of the most deplorable depression. 
He was educated at Westminster school, where his na- 
tural timidity was increased, by the arrogant and bois- 
terous behaviour of some of his school-fellows. " I 
was," said he, " so dispirited by them, that I did not 
dare to raise my eyes above the shoe-buckles of the 
elder boys." 

He was removed from school to the office of an at- 
torney; from whence, after three years, he settled 
himself in chambers of the Inner-Temple, as a regular 
student of law, where he resided to the age of thirty- 
three. But this profession did not suit his diffidence, 
his love of retirement, or his poetical genius. " I 
rambled," said he, " from the thorny road of my au- 
stere patroness, jurisprudence, into the primrose paths 
of literature and poetry." Cowper was appointed Clerk 
of the Journals of the House of Lords ; and a parlia- 
mentary dispute making it necessary for him to appear 
at the bar of the house, his terrors on this occasion rose 
to so astonishing a height, that they overwhelmed his 
reason : he was obliged to relinquish a station so formi- 
dable to his singular sensibility. 

In a few months, his mind became tranquil and 
clear ; and resolving to abandon all thoughts of a la- 
borious profession, and all intercourse with the busy 
world, he settled, in 1765, in the town of Huntingdon. 
Here commenced his acquaintance with a respectable 
clergyman, and his amiable wife, who resided in that 



APPENDIX. 353 

town : their name was Unwin. About two years after- 
wards, the husband died j and from that period, during 
the course of near thirty years, this excellent woman 
was a most distinguished friend and guardian of Cow- 
per. Of her piety and virtue, and her eminent invari- 
able kindness to him, he has left many affectionate 
and grateful memorials. In the lapse of these years, he 
was several times oppressed with derangement of mind, 
which was extremely distressing to his friends, who 
entertained for him the purest sentiments of esteem and 
regard. During his lucid intervals, which continued 
several years, he was perfectly himself; and exhibited, 
in his writings, the most unequivocal proofs of it. His 
gratitude to the Supreme Being, for the mercies and 
deliverance he had experienced, was fervent and exem- 
plary ; and his life was distinguished by every corres- 
pondent virtue* . 

Cowper wrote a number of little poems, which are 
marked with fine traits of the pathetic and descriptive j 
and which show the exquisite delicacy of his feelings, 
and the goodness of his heart. - His- " Task," which 
was published in 1785, placed him in the first rank of 
English poets. .This work is finely characterized by 
Hayley, his biographer. - " The Task," says he, " may 
be called a bird's-eye view of human life. It is a mi- 
nute and extensive survey of every thing most interest- 
ing to the reason, to the fancy, and to the affections 
of man. It exhibits his pleasures, and his pains j his 
pastimes, and his business j his folly and his wisdom ; 
his dangers, and his duties; all with such exquisite 
facility, and force of expression, with such grace and 
dignity of sentiment, that rational beings, who wish 
to render themselves more amiable, ana more happy, 
can harcliy be more advantageously employed, than in 

Gg2 




3.54* APPENDIX. 

frequent perusal of the " Task." — In 1791 appeared 
his " Translation of the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer, 
in Blank Verse." This work, from first to last, gave 
Gowper ten years of useful and pleasing employment. 
It has considerable merit ; particularly in its near ap- 
proach to that sweet majestic simplicity, which forms 
one of the most attractive features in the great prince 
and father of poets. 

The inquietude and darkness of Cowper*s latter 
years, were terminated by a most gentle and tranquil 
dissolution. He died in the year 1800. — We shall 
close this sketch of him, with a striking eulogium 
made by his biographer on his character and writings; 
" The more the works of Cowper are read, the more 
his readers will find reason to admire the variety, and 
the extent, the graces, and the energy, of his literary 
talents. The universal admiration excited by these 
will be heightened and endeared, to the friends of 
virtue, by the obvious reflection, that his writings, ex- 
cellent as they appear, were excelled by the gentleness^ 
the benevolence, and the sanctity of his life J' 

Cunningham, John, was born in Dublin, in 1729, 
be received his education at the grammar school of 
Droghedaj and early began to exhibit specimens of 
his poetical powers. His passion for the stage induced 
him to engage, when young, in the profession of an 
actor ; and he continued in it, with little variation, tilt 
his death. 

In 1762, he published "An Elegy on a Pile of 
Ruins ;" which was read with pleasure, even after 
Gray's " Elegy in a Country Church Yard ;" of which 
it is an obvious imitation. He wrote also u The Con- 
iemplatist, A Night Piece j" " Fortune, an Apo* 



APPENDIX. S55 



iogue fi " Day, a Pastoral Poem," and many other 
small pieces of poetry : all of them evince considerable 
powers of description. 

After lingering some time under a nervous disor- 
der, during which he burnt all his papers, he died ix* 
1773, in the 44th year of his age. 

Curtius, Quintus, a Latin historian who wrote 
the life of Alexander the Great, is only known by his 
work. He is supposed, by his style, to have lived iit 
©r near the Augustan age. His work is the most en- 
tertaining account we possess of the actions of Alex-* 
ander. 

Dodd, William, an English divine, was born m 
Lincolnshire, in 1729. He was a celebrated and popu- 
lar preacher in the Metropolis ; where he was remark- 
able for his zeal in promoting charitable institutions, 
particularly the Magdalen hospital, of which he became' 
preacher. He was a classical scholar, and possessed' 
considerable abilities. His writings are numerous, and 
some of them, not only well-written, but useful. The 
popularity which he acquired made him vain ; and his 
vanity led him into expences, to which an opulent for- 
tune would have been unequal. He became involved 
in debts which he could not discharge; and was 
tempted, at length, to commit forgery, by which he 
forfeited his life. He was committed to prison, tried^ 
convicted, and executed at Tyburn, in \777» 

He died with all the marks of the deepest remorse, 
for the follies and vices of which he had been guilty ; 
and with expressions of the most bitter regret for the 
scandal which, by his conduct, he had brought on his 



a) 



56 APPENDIX. 



profession, and on the religion of which he had offici- 
ated as a minister. 

His " Thoughts in Prison," which were published 
after his death, contain much admonitory matter, and 
have passed through numerous editions. His " Re- 
flections on Death" have also been much read. 

Doddridge, Philip, an eminent English noncon- 
formist divine, was born in London, in the year 1702. 
He was a fine classical scholar, and had a mind adorned 
with a rich variety of knowledge. » At Northampton 
he kept an academy of distinguished reputation. Du- 
ring the twenty-two years, in which.- he = sustained the 
office of tutor, he had about two hundred young men 
under his care, of whom one hundred and- twenty en- 
gaged in the ministry. At Northampton, he laboured 
with great assiduity, as a minister and instructer, ad- 
mired and esteemed, by men of every persuasion, for 
the extent of his learning, the amiableness of his man- 
ners, and the piety of his life. - This excellent man 
died in If 51, at Lisbon, whither he had gone with the 
hope of recovering his health. 

His work entitled " The Rise and Progress of Re- 
ligion in the Soul, &c." was warmly applauded by per- 
sons eminent for rank, learning, and piety, in the 
established church, as well as by the dissenters ; and 
soon went through many editions, not only in this 
country, but in America, and on the continent of 
Europe. His " Family Expositor," in 6 vols, octavo, is 
his grand work. It possesses great merit, and has been 
very useful in promoting the cause of piety and virtue. 
His life of col. James Gardiner, is drawn up with the 
warm feelings of friendship. It is, however a valua- 
ble performance, and well calculated to recommend re- 



APPENDIX. 357 

iigion and goodness. Besides these works, he wrote 
many treatises, all designed to explain or enforce the 
doctrines and precepts of the Gospel, 

We shall conclude this sketch, with the testimony 
of Dr. Kippis, who says, " Dr. Doddridge was not 
only a great man, but one of the most excellent and 
useful christians, . and christian ministers, that ever 
existed." 

Dyer, John, an English poet, was born in Wales, 
in the year 1700. He received his early education in 
the country, and finished his studies at Westminster 
school. His father intended him for the profession of 
the law : but painting and poetry were his most agree- 
able studies. He travelled into Italy for improvement ; 
and at Rome formed the plan of his poem called " The 
Ruins of Rome ;" which he finished soon after his re- 
turn, in 1740. 

A serious turn of mind, ill health, and the love of 
study, solitude, and reflection, inclined him to the 
church ; and he accordingly entered into orders. He 
was a very amiable and respectable man; beloved by 
his friends for the sweetness and gentleness of his dis- 
position, and respected by the world, as a person of su- 
perior endowments. 

In 1757, he published his u Fleece f* but he did not 
long survive it. He died in 1758, in the 58th year 
of his age. 

Dr. Johnson says that " Dyer's " Grongar Hill" is 
the happiest of his productions. It is not indeed 
very accurately written: but the scenes which it dis- 
plays are so pleasing, the images which they raise so 
welcome to the mind, and the reflections of the writer 
so consonant to the general sense or experience of man- 
kind, that when it is once read it will be read ag ain.* 



3£8 APPENDIX, 

Enfield, William, an eminent dissenting minister, 
and an elegant writer, was born at Sudbury, in 1741. 
In 1763, he was ordained minister of a congregation at 
Liverpool, where he soon obtained notice as a pleasing 
preacher, and an amiable man in society. In 1770, he 
accepted an invitation to officiate as a resident tutor, and 
lecturer in the belles-letters, in the academy at War- 
rington ; and he fulfilled these offices for several years, 
with great diligence and reputation. In 1785, he took 
the charge of the principal congregation at Norwich ; 
where he continued usefully and honourably occupied, 
till his death, which happened in 1797. 

His publications are various : the chief of them are, 
an " Abridgment of Brucker's History of Philosophy," 
a w r ork in which the tenets of the different sects of 
philosophers, are displayed with much elegance and 
perspicuity; " Biographical Sermons on the principal 
Characters in the Old and the New Testaments;" 
" Institutes of Natural Philosophy, theoretical and ex- 
perimental ;" and a compilation called " The Speak- 
er," a very popular school book. 

Fenelon, Francis de Salignac de la Motte, arch- 
bishop of Cambray, one of the most excellent and dis- 
tinguished persons of his time, was born of an ancient 
family in France, in the year 1651. He made a rapid 
progress in learning ; and being destined to the eccle- 
siastical profession, became a preacher as early as his 
nineteenth year. At the age of twenty four, he en- 
tered into orders, and exercised the most laborious offi- 
ces of his ministry. His singular talents of pleasing 
and instructing, induced the king to nominate him 
chief of a mission for the conversion of heretics. This 
post he would not accept, but on condition that no • 



APPENDIX. 3^9 

• other arms should be employed in the work, than those 
of argument and charity. 

In 1689, he was appointed preceptor to the duke of 
Burgundy, the heir-apparent, and to his brothers. By 
his excellent lessons of religion and morality, he so 
softened the harsh and haughty character of the duke 
of Burgundy, as to make him a model of all that could 
be wished, in the expected sovereign of a vast empire. 
His services were rewarded in 1695, with the splendid 
preferment of the archbishopric of Cambray. 

His book entitled " An explication of the Maxims 
of the Saints concerning the interior life," gave consi- 
derable offence to the guardians of orthodoxy ; and his 
enemies procured it to be condemned by the pope; and 
obtained the banishment of the archbishop to his 
diocess. In this retreat, he united the characters of a 
nobleman and of a christian pastor. In the latter, nothing 
could surpass his simplicity of manners, his charity, 
his minute attention to all his duties, his fervent piety 
united to indulgence and moderation. He frequent- 
ly took walks round the environs of Cambray, entered 
the cottages of the peasants, sat down with them, and 
administered consolation and relief in their distresses. 
When the alarms of war had driven them from their 
habitations, he opened his house to them, and even 
served them at his table. The amiableness of his 
manners and character produced veneration even in the 
enemies of his country ; for in the last war with Louis 
XIV. the duke of Marlborough, amidst the general 
devastation, expressly ordered the lands of Fenelon to 
be spared. 

This excellent man died in 1715. He expired in 
perfect tranquillity, deeply lamented by all the inhabi- 
tants of the Low-countries, and especially by the flock 
corajiytteol to his charge. 



360 APPENDIX. 

Besides other works, he wrote the following. "Di- 
alogues on eloquence :" they contain the most solid 
principles on the art of persuasion, of which he treats 
both like an orator and a philosopher. " Telemachus," 
a highly popular work. Never were purer, more use- 
ful, and more elevated maxims of public and private 
conduct, offered to the heir of a monarchy. « A 
Treatise on the Education of Daughters;" an excellent 
work. " Dialogues of the Dead." " A demonstra- 
tion of the existence of God, by proofs drawn from 
Nature." " The most touching charm of Fenelon's 
works," says an eminent writer, " is the sensation of 
peace and repose, with which he inspires his reader. 
He is a friend who joins himself to us ; who sheds his 
soul into ours; who tempers, and, at least for a time, 
suspends our troubles and afflictions." 

Franklin, Benjamin, a philosopher and statesman 
of great celebrity, was born at Boston in New-England, 
in 1706. From die early indications of a disposition 
for literature, which he exhibited, his father destined 
him for the church : but the expense of a large family 
prevented him from continuing the education commen- 
ced for this purpose ; and, at the age of ten, he was 
taken home to be employed in the offices of the fami- 
ly trade, which was that of a soap-boiler and tallow- 
chandler. He however, soon after became an appren- 
tice to an elder brother, who was a printer. In a short 
time he removed to Philadelphia, and engaged in the 
service of a printer in that city. He contracted an ac- 
quaintance with several young men fond of reading ; . 
in whose society he spent his evenings, and improved 
his taste. His strong powers of mind joined to un- 
common industry, furnished him with a large stock 



APPENDIX. 361 

of useful knowledge, and rendered him highly respect- 
able. He gradually passed through a variety of public 
employments, constantly gaining an accession of honour 
and esteem. His fame stood high both in the politi- 
cal and scientific world. He was sent as American 
ambassador to France; and in 1778, was successful in 
negociating an alliance with that country. He also 
acted as one of the plenipotentiaries, in signing the 
treaty of peace with England in 1783. In 1785, he 
returned to America; and received from his grateful 
countrymen those honours and distinctions, which he 
had justly merited. His increasing infirmities caused 
him, in 1788, to withdraw from all public business; 
and, in 1790, he closed, in serenity and resignation, 
his active and useful life of eighty four years. 

Dr. Franklin has been surpassed by few, if any men, 
in that solid practical wisdom, which consists in pursu- 
ing valuable ends by the most appropriate means. His 
cool temper and sound judgment, generally secured 
him from false views and erroneous expectations. In 
his speculations and pursuits, something beneficial was 
ever in contemplation. He justly says of himself, " I 
have always set a greater value on the character of a 
doer of good, than on any other kind of reputation." 
He possessed the rare talent of drawing useful lessons 
from the commonest occurrences, which would have 
passed unimproved by the generality of observers. 

He published several useful works, on electricity r 
meteorology, and mechanics; and since his death have 
appeared in two small volumes, his u Essays, humour- 
ous, moral, and literary," with his " Life," writtea 
by himself. 

Gay, John, an eminent English poet, was born near 
Barnstaple in Devonshire, in 1688. He received his 

h h 



362' APPENDIX. 

education at the free-school at Barnstaple; and was 
afterwards put apprentice to a silk- mercer. But after 
a few years of negligent attendance, he separated from 
his master, by agreement. He had a small fortune, 
which enabled him to apply to other views, and to in- 
dulge his inclination for the muses. In 1711, he gave 
to the public his u Rural Sports," inscribed to Pope, 
then a young poet of the same age with himself. This 
compliment, joined with the sweet unassuming temper 
of Gay, laid a foundation of mutual friendship, which 
death alone could dissolve. In 1712, he accepted an 
offer of residing with the duchess of Monmouth, in qua- 
lity of her secretary. The same year he produced the 
poem entitled u Trivia," or the Art of walking the 
Streets of London." This piece was admired ; and is? 
indeed, one of the most entertaining of the class. In 
1714, he published u The Shepherd's Week." The 
pictures which it contains of rural life, and its accom- 
panying scenery, are natural and amusing; and are in- 
termixed with circumstances truly beautiful and touch- 
ing. Gay was appointed secretary to the earl of Cla- 
rendon, in his embassy to the court of Hanover. In 
1726, he produced his u Fables," written professedly 
for the instruction of the duke of Cumberland, and de- 
dicated to that prince. These fables have great merit, 
and are almost universally read and admired. He wrote 
several dramatic works, which added to his "iit^rary re- 
putation. But his most popular performance of this 
kind has been justly accused of having a tendency to 
sap the foundations of all social morality : though it is 
highly credible, that Gay had no mischievous inten- 
tions in writing it. 

Gay met with disappointments, which dejected his 
spirits and affected his health- He however employed 



APPENDIX. 363 

himself occasionally in composition, till the year 1732, 
when he died of an inflammation of the bowels, at the 
age of forty four. 

The private character of Gay was that of easy good 
nature, and undesigning simplicity ; and he was much 
beloved by his friends. He possessed but little energy 
of mind ; and had too much indolence to support that 
independence, to which his principles inclined him. 

Gilpin, William, a clergyman of great worth, was 
born in the year 1724. He first attracted public no- 
tice by his merit as a biographer, in 1753, when he 
published the life of his lineal ancestor, the celebrated 
Bernard Gilpin, commonly called u The Northern 
Apostle." He afterwards wrote the lives of Latimer, 
John Wickliffe, John Huss, Jerome of Prague, and 
Zisca. They are lively, well written, interesting pieces 
of biography. His u Lectures on the Church Cate- 
chism" have been much read and approved. He was 
author of several other publications, which do credit to 
his taste and abilities. His life corresponded with his 
writings. Few men have left behind them a higher 
character for wisdom, piety, and virtue. He died ia 
the eightieth year of his age. 

Goldsmith, Oliver, a celebrated English writer, 
was born in Ireland, in the year 1731. He was the 
son of a clergyman, who gave him a literary education, 
and sent him, at an early period, to Dublin college. 
Being designed for the medical profession, he removed 
to the university of Edinburgh, where he continued 
about three years. Unable to pay a debt which he 
had contracted there, he left Edinburgh clandestinely ; 
but he was arrested at Sunderland, and was indebted 



364 APPENDIX. 

to the friendship of two fellow- collegians, for his re- 
lease from confinement. Under these unfavourable 
auspices, he launched into the world; and in spite of 
penury, resolved to gratify his curiosity by a European 
tour. He remained four years on the continent, tra- 
velling over the greater part of it, enjoying the scenes 
of nature, and studying the human passions. His learn- 
ing and other attainments, procured him a hospitable 
reception at the monasteries; and his German flute 
made him welcome to the peasants of Flanders and 
Germany. " Whenever I approached a peasant's 
house towards nightfall," he used to say, u I played 
one of my most merry tunes ; and that generally pro- 
cured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the 
next day." 

On his return to England, he was in so narrow cir- 
cumstances, that it was long before he could get em- 
ployment in London, being rejected by several apothe- 
caries, to whom he offered himself as a journeyman. 
Som* of his first employments were those of occupying 
a department in the Monthly Review, and writing 
periodical papers in the Public Ledger. For some years 
he exercised his pen in obscurity ; but in 1765, he sud- 
denly blazed out as a poet, in his " Traveller, or a 
Prospect of Society." Of this work, that great critic, 
Dr. Johnson, liberally and justly said, that" there had 
not been so fine a poem since Pope's time." The public 
were equally sensible of its merit, and it conferred upon 
him great celebrity. His poetical fame reached its sum- 
mit in 1770 by the publication of " The Deserted Vil- 
lage," a charrmngpoem, which was universally admired. 
It would not be easy to point out, in the whole compass of 
English poetry, pieces that are read with more delight, 
than "The Deserted Village," and "The Traveller." The 



APPENDIX. 363 

/ 

elegance of the versification ; the force and splendour, 
yet simplicity, of the diction ; the happy mixture of 
animated sentiment with glowing description ; are cal- 
culated to please equally the refined and the uncultivated 
"taste. Besides other works, in prose, he wrote " A 
Roman History," U A History of England," U A History 
of Greece," and " The Citizen of the World." These 
performances are both amusing and instructive. 

In the latter part of his life, he was afflicted with a 
despondence of mind, which brought on a low fever and 
great debility, under which he sunk in the year 1774. 

Doctor Goldsmith's general conduct demonstrated 
great want of prudence and self-command. He was 
rather admired for his genius, and beloved for his be- 
nevolence, than solidly esteemed. — His literary charac- 
ter is compressed by Dr. Johnson in the following terms. 
u Goldsmith was a man of such variety of powers, and 
such felicity of performance, that he always seemed to 
do best that which he was doing; a man who had the 
art of being minute without tediousness, and general 
without confusion ; whose language was copious with- 
out exuberance, exact without constraint, and easy 
without weakness." 

Gray, Thomas, an eminent English poet, was the 
son of a respectable citizen of London, and born in Corn* 
hill, in the year 1716. He was educated at Eton school, 
and thence removed to St. Peter's college, Cambridge, 
in 1734. He applied himself to the study of the law: 
but on an invitation from his friend, the celebrated 
Horace Walpole, he accompanied him in his travels 
through France and Italy. Soon after his return 
to England, he went to reside at Cambridge; and 
was seldom absent from college during the remainfe 1 

Hha 



q 



65 APPENDIX. 



of his life. Mason the poet was his intimate friend, 
and .as proved himself faithful to his memory and just 
to his reputation, in the " Memoirs of the Life and 
Writings of Gray." In 1768 Gray was appointed 
professor of modern history : but his health declining, 
he was never able to execute the duties of the^ appoint- 
ment. He died of the gout in the year 1771. 

He wrote several small pieces of poetry ; but that by 
which he is most distinguished, is, the " Elegy written 
in a Country Church Yard." This work is, perhaps, 
the first of the kind in any language. The subject is 
universally interesting ; the allegorical imagery is sub- 
lime ; and the natural description picturesque ; the sen- 
timent is mostly simple and pathetic ; and the versifi- 
cation has a melody, which has not often been attained, 
and cannot be surpassed. The " Ode. on Spring," the 
" Ode to Adversity," and the " Ode on Eton College," 
possess the true spirit of poetry, and exquisite charms 
of verse. 

Gray was a man of extensive learning. He was equally 
acquainted with the elegant and the profound parts of 
science j and that not superficially, but thoroughly. 
He knew every branch of history, both natural and civil: 
he had read all the original historians of England, 
France, and Italy ; and he was a great antiquarian. 
Criticism, metaphysics, morals, politics, made a principal 
part of his study. Voyages and travels of all sorts were 
his favourite amusements : and he had a fine taste in 
painting, prints, music, gardening, and architecture. 
He was, moreover, a man of good breeding, virtue, 
and humanity. 

Gregory, John, professor of medicine in the uni- 
versity of Edinburgh, was born at Aberdeen, in 1724. 



\ 



APPENDIX. 36,7, 

He received a very judicious education ; and was ex- 
tremely diligent in attending a variety of lectures con- 
nected with the medical profession. In 1752, he married 
Elizabeth, daughter of William lord Forbes ; a young 
lady who, to the exterior endowments of great beauty 
and engaging manners, joined a very superior under- 
standing, and an uncommon share of wit. During the 
whole period of their union, which was but nine years, 
he enjoyed the highest portion of domestic happiness. 

Dr. Gregory, soon after the death of his wife, and, 
as he himself says, " for the amusement of his solitary 
hours," employed himself in the composition of that 
admirable tract, entitled, " A Father's Legacy to his 
daughters." This work is a most amiable display of 
the piety and goodness of his heart ; and his consum- 
mate knowledge of human nature and of the world. 
He published also, u A comparative View of the 
State of Man and other Animals." Besides his moral 
writings, he wrote with great ability in the line of his 
profession. — This excellent man died suddenly in the 
year 1773. 

Harris, James, an English gentleman of very un- 
common parts and learning, was born at Salisbury, in 
1709. After his grammatical education, he was re- 
moved, in 1726, to Wadham college in Oxford, but 
took no degree. He, however, cultivated letters most 
attentively ; and in the theory and practice of Music, 
he had few equals. In 1763, he was appointed one of 
the lords commissioners of the admiralty. In 1774, he 
was made secretary and comptroller to the queen ; 
which post he held till his death. He died in 1780, 
after a long illness, which he bore with calmness and 
resignation. 



386 APPENDIX* 

He is the author of several valuable works. 
i. " Three treatises, concerning Art; Music, Paint- 
ing, and Poetry ; and Happiness." 2. " Philosophical 
Arrangements." 3. u Philological Inquiries." -4. 
" Hermes ; or, a Philosophical Inquiry concerning 
Universal Grammar." Of this work bishop Lowth 
speaks very highly ; and adds, " This is t, ^ most 
beautiful and perfect example of analysis, that has been 
exhibited since the days of Aristotle." 

Hawkesworth, John, a celebrated English 
writer, was born in 1715. He was brought up to a 
mechanical profession ; but possessing a refined taste, 
and a lively imagination, he chose to devote himself to 
literature. He resided some time at Bromley in Kent, 
where his wife kept a boarding school. As an author, 
his " Adventurer" is his capital work ; the merits of 
which, it is said, procured him the degree of LL. D. 
from Herring, archbishop of Canterbury. He com- 
piled " A Narrative of the Discoveries in the South 
Seas ;" and it is said he received for it the enormous 
sum of six thousand pounds. The performance did 
not however satisfy the public. The province of 
Hawkesworth was works of taste and elegance, where 
imagination and the passions were to be affected; not 
works of dry, cold, accurate narrative. 

He died in 1773; some say of chagrin from the ill 
reception of his " Narrative :" for he was a man of the 
keenest sensibility, and obnoxious to all the evils of 
that unhappy temperament. 

In the last number of " The Adventurer," are the 
following pathetic admonitions : " The hour is hasting, 
in which whatever praise or censure I have acquired, 
will be remembered with equal indifference. Time, 



APPENDIX. 3§9 

who is impatient to date my last paper, will shortly 
moulder, in the dust, the hand which is now writing 
it ; and still the breast that now throbs at the reflec- 
tion. But let not this be read, as something that re- 
lates only to another : for a few years only can divide 
the eye that is now reading, from the hand that has 
Written." 

Hervey, James, a pious and ingenious English di- 
vine, was born at Hardingstone, in Northamptonshire, 
tn 1714. After he had received his academical educa- 
tion at Northampton, he was removed to Lincoln col- 
lege, Oxford, where he was distinguished for his classi- 
cal attainments, and the seriousness of his deportment. 
He succeed his father in the livings of Weston Favell 
md Collingtree ; and diligently pursued his studies, 
and the labours of the ministry, under the disadvantage 
of a weak constitution. 

In 1746, he published his " Meditations among the 
Tombs, and Reflections on a Flower Garden ;" and the 
following year appeared the u Contemplations on the 
Night and Starry Heavens ; and a Winter Piece." 
The sublime sentiments in these pieces, are conveyed 
in a flowing and elegant style. The language has, 
however, been deemed too flowery and rather too ele- 
vated. These publications have been much read, and 
have often cherished pious and grateful emotions to- 
wards the Author of all good. In 1755, came out his 
u Theron and Aspasio ; or, a Series of Dialogues and 
Letters on the most important Subjects." This work 
has had many admirers, and some opposers. The Dia- 
logues are generally introduced with descriptions of 
some of the most delightful scenes of the creation. 

As his works had a great sale, his profits were large; 
but he applied the whole of them to charitable purposes, 



370 APPENDIX. 

His charity was, indeed, very remarkable. It was al- 
ways his desire to die just even with the world, and to 
be, as he called it, his own executor. This truly good 
man died in the winter of 1758, leaving the little he 
possessed, to purchase warm clothing for the poor in 
that severe season. 

Home, Henry, lord Kaimes, an eminent Scottish 
lawyer and author of many celebrated works on va- 
rious subjects, was born in the year 1696. In early 
youth he was lively, and eager in the acquisition of 
knowledge. He never attended a public school; but 
was instructed in the ancient and modern languages, 
as well as in several branches of the mathematics, by a 
private tutor, who continued to be his preceptor for 
many years. 

He was long an ornament to the Scottish Bar ; and 
in 1752, was advanced to the bench, as one of the judg- 
es of the court of session, under the title of lord Kaimes. 

He wrote several tracts respecting law and equity, 
which exhibit marks of great penetration and profound 
knowledge. Several of his publications also show that 
he was distinguished for his taste in polite literature. 
It is observed by a late celebrated author, that " to 
read, write, and converse, in due proportions, is the 
business of a man of letters : and that he who hopes to 
look back hereafter with satisfaction upon past years, 
must learn to know the value of single minutes, and 
endeavour to let no particle of time fall useless to the 
ground." By practising these lessons, lord Kaimes 
rose to literary eminence, in opposition to all the obsta- 
cles which the tumult of public business could place in 
his way. — He died, honoured and regretted, in the 
year 1 782, of debility resulting from extreme old age. 



APPENDIX. 37% 

Lord Kaimes's " Elements of Criticism," 2 volumes 
octavo, show that the art of criticism is founded on the 
principles of human nature. It is not only a highly in- 
structive, but an entertaining work. His " Sketches of 
the History of man," contain much useful information, 
and are lively and interesting. 

Hooke, Nathaniel, celebrated for a u Roman His- 
tory," extending from the foundation of the city to the 
ruin of the commonwealth, died in 1 764, but the time 
of his birth cannot be ascertained. By the recommen- 
dation of the earl of Chesterfield, Hooke was employed 
by the duchess of Marlborough to digest u An account 
of the conduct of the dowager-duchess of Marlborough, 
from her first coming to court to the year 1710." He 
executed this work in so masterly a manner, and so 
much to the satisfaction of the duchess, that she com- 
plimented the author with a present of five thousand 
pounds. 

In 1723 he translated from the French, " A History 
of the Life of the late Archbishop of Cambray :" and 
soon after published a translation of Ramsay's Travels 
of Cyrus. He was concerned in several other works, 
which contributed to support his literary reputation ; 
and he long enjoyed the confidence and patronage of 
men, not less distinguished by virtue than by titles. 

Horne, George, bishop of Norwich, was born in 
1730, at Otham, near Maidstone, in Kent. At the age 
of fifteen he removed from Maidstone school to Uni- 
versity college, Oxford. At college his Studies were, in 
general, the same as those of other virtuous and inge- 
nious youths; while the vivacity of his conversation* 



372 APPENDIX. 

and the propriety of his conduct, endeared him to all 
whose regard was creditable. In 1753, he entered in- 
to orders, and was soon distinguisned as an excellent 
preacher. He appeared also as an acute writer, par- 
ticularly in controversy. After several preferments 
and honours, he was appointed bishop of Norwich : 
but his infirmities were then very great. As he en- 
tered the palace, he said, " I am come to these steps 
at a time of life, when I can neither go up them nor 
down them, with safety." He died at Bath, lull of iaith 
and hope, in the year 1792. It seldom fails to the lot 
of the biographer, to record a man so blameless in 
character and conduct, as bishop Home. Whatever 
might be his peculiar opinions on some points^ he was 
undoubtedly a sincere and exemplary christian. 

His writings are numerous and valuable. We shall 
only mention, u Considerations on the Life and Death 
of St. John the Baptist ;" " A Commentary on the 
Psalms j" u Five volumes of Sermons on several sub- 
jects and occasions ;" u A Letter to Adam Smith, LL.D. 
on the Life, Death, and Philosophy, of David Hume;" 
" A Letter to Dr. Priestley, by an Undergraduate." 

Hume, David, a celebrated philosopher and histo- ( 
rian, was born in Scotland, in the year 1711. He 
possessed shining talents, which were greatly improved 
by education, study, and observation of the world, 
The desire of literary fame was his ruling passion : but 
his endeavours to accomplish this object, were, at first, 
and for a long time unsuccessful. Even his history 
of Britain under the house of Stuart, (which after- 
wards formed a part of his great work the History of 
England,) was, on its publication, almost universally 
decried. He felt this disappointment very keenly, 



APPENDIX. 373 



and his spirits were so much sunk by it, that he form- 
ed the resolution of retiring to France, changing his 
name, and bidding adieu to his own country for ever. 
But his design was frustrated, by the breaking out of 
the war of 1755, between France and England. 

He wrote several Treatises, of a moral, philosophi- 
cal, and political nature ; the merits of which have 
been variously appreciated. But the work for which 
he has been most deservedly celebrated, is the u Histo- 
ry of England, &c." He may, with great propriety, 
be styled a profound and elegant historian. We find, 
however, even in this history, some scepticism on the 
subject of religion, and sentiments not friendly to 
Christianity. It is to be lamented that so fine a writer 
as Hume, whose works are so extensively circulated, 
had not satisfied his mind of the truth of Christianity ; 
and ranged himself among the advocates of a religion, 
which is completely adapted to the condition of man 
in this life, and which opens to him the sublimest 
views of happiness hereafter. 

Dr. Beattie, a zealous and enlightened philosopher 
and christian, on reviewing the philosophical writings 
of Hume, expresses his regret and surprise, in the fol- 
lowing terms. " That he whose manners in private 
life are said to be so agreeable to many of his acquaint- 
ance, should yet, in the public capacity of an author, 
have given so much cause of just offence to all the 
friends of virtue and mankind, is to me matter of 
astonishment and sorrow. That he, who succeeds so 
well in describing the fates of nations, should yet have 
failed so egregiously in explaining the operations of 
the mind, is one of those incongruities in human ge- 
nius, for which perhaps philosophy will never be able 
fully to account. That he, who hath so impartially sta- 
ted the opposite pleas and principles of our political fuc- 

i i 



o74 APPENDIX. 

tions, should yet have adopted the most illiberal preju- 
dices against natural and revealed religion ; that he, 
who on some occasions hath displayed even a profound 
erudition, should at other times, when intoxicated 
with a favourite theory, have suffered affirmations to 
escape him, which would have fixed the opprobrious 
name of Sciolist on a less celebrated author ; and, finally, 
that a moral philosopher, who seems to have exert- 
ed his utmost ingenuity in searching after paradoxes, 
should yet happen to light on none, but such as are all, 
without exception, on the side of licentiousness and 
scepticism: these are inconsistences perhaps equally 
inexplicable. His philosophy hath done great harm. 
Its admirers I know are very numerous : but I have 
not yet met with one person, who both admired and 
understood it."* 

Hume was a man of mild dispositions, of command 
of temper, and of an open, social, and cheerful hu- 
mour ; capable of attachment, but little susceptible of 
enmity, and of great moderation in all his passions. 

In the spring of 1775, he was affected with a disor- 
der in his bowels., which, though it gave him no alarm 
at first, proved incurable, and at length mortal. It ap- 
pears, however, that it was not painful, nor even trouble- 
some or fatiguiag. The natural evenness and tranquil- 
lity of his temper, enabled him to bear the gradual de- 
cav of his bodily powers, with remarkable composure. 
He died in the summer of 1776 and was interred at 
Edinburgh, where a monument was erected to his me- 
mory. 

J ago, Richard, an English poet, was born in War- 
wickshire in 1715. He was educated at University 

* Beattie's Essay on the Immutability of Truth. The Preface. — 
See a Letter to Adam Smith, LL. D. on the Life, Death, and 
Philosophy of David Hume. By Dr. Home, Bishop of Norwich, 



APPENDIX. o7S 

college, Oxford; and entered into orders, in 1737. 
The poet Shenstone was his particular friend, by whom 
he was introduced to persons of merit and distinction. 

Whilst he was engaged in the duties of his profession 
as a country clergyman, which he performed with ex- 
emplary diligence, he found leisure to indulge his early 
propensity to the study of poetry. His principal 
performance, is a descriptive poem, entitled " Edge- 
Hill." This piece ranks with the " Cooper's Hill" of 
Denham, the " Grongar Hill" of Dyer, and similar com- 
positions of other writers, who have proved their powers 
in loco-descriptive poetry. His elegies on the " Black- 
birds," the " Goldfinches," and the " Swallows," are 
characterized by an amiable humanity, and tender sim- 
plicity of thought and expression, which justly entitle him 
to the exclusive distinction of the " Poet of the Birds." 

As a descriptive poet, Jago evinces a picturesque ima- 
gination, a correct judgment, and a delicate taste, refin- 
ed by a careful perusal of the ancient classics. His moral 
and intellectual character was truly amiable and re- 
spectable. 

After a short illness, he died in 1781, in the 66th 
year of his age. 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, who has been styled the 
brightest ornament of the 18th century, was born at 
Litchfield in Staffordshire, in the year 1709. His father, 
who was a bookseller of some reputation, placed him at 
the free school of Litchfield. He early displayed strong- 
marks of genius. Some of his school exercises, which 
have been accidentally preserved, j ustify the expectations 
which determined a father, not opulent, to continue 
him in the paths of literature. Before he was fourteen 
years old, his mind was disturbed by scruples of infi- 



376 APPENDIX. 

delity ; but his studies and inquiries being honest, ended 
in conviction. He found that religion is true : and what 
he had learned, he ever afterwards endeavoured to teach. 
Grot jus's excellent book " On the Truth of the Chris- 
tian Religion," was very useful in removing his doubts, 
and establishing his belief. 

In 1 728, he was entered as a commoner at Pembroke 
college, Oxford. Dr. Adam said of him, " that he was 
the best qualified young man, that he ever remembered 
to have seen admitted." Here he produced a fine Latin 
version of Pope's Messiah. ,Pope read the translation, 
and returned it with this encomium ; " The writer of 
this poem, will leave it a question, for posterity, whether 
his or mine be the original." From his father's insolven- 
cy, and the scantiness of his finances, he was obliged 
to leave Oxford before he had completed the usual 
studies, and without a degree. 

From the university, he returned to Litchfield, with 
little improvement of his prospects; and soon after engag- 
ed as usher in a school in Leicestershire. But being un- 
kindly treated by the patron of the school, he left it, 
after a few months in disgust. In 173.5 he married a 
widow of Birmingham, much older than himself, and 
not very engaging in person or manners. She was pos- 
sessed of 8001. ; which enabled him to fit up a house 
and open an academy. But this plan also failed for want 
of encouragement : he obtained only three scholars, 
one of whom was the celebrated David Garrick. In 
1737 he settled in London, where, for several years, he 
derived his principal employment and support, by writ- 
ing for the Gentleman's Magazine. 

In 1738, he published his " London," an admirable 
poem, which laid the foundation of his fame. It con- 
tains the most spirited invectives against tyranny and 



APPENDIX, 377 

oppression, the warmest predilection for his own country, 
and the purest love of virtue. — In 1744, appeared his 
" Life of Savage." The narrative is remarkably smooth 
and well disposed, the observations are just, and the 
reflections disclose the inmost recesses of the human 
heart. — " The Vanity of Human Wishes," was pro- 
duced in 1 749, It contains profound reflections : and 
the various instances of disappointment, are judiciously 
chosen, and strongly painted. — " The Rambler" came 
out in 1750. In this work, Johnson is the great 
moral teacher of his countrymen : his essays form a 
body of ethics : the observations on life and manners, 
are acute and instructive : and the papers professedly 
critical, serve to promote the cause of literature. Every 
page shows a mind teeming with classical allusion, and 
poetical imagery.— In 1755 he published his grand work. 
the "Dictionary of the English Language." This per- 
formance may properly be called the Mount Atlas of 
English literature. The labour of forming it was im- 
mense ; and the definitions exhibit astonishing proofs of 
acuteness of intellect, and precision of language. — His 
44 Lives of the English Poets" were completed in 1781. 
This is an eminently valuable work. His judgment, 
taste, quickness in the discrimination of motives, and 
his happy art of giving to well known incidents the grace 
of novelty, and the force of instruction, shine strongly 
in these narratives. Sometimes, however, his colourings 
receive a tinge from prejudice, and his judgment is in- 
sensibly warped by the particularity of his private opin- 
ions.— He wrote also " The Idler," *' Rasselas," " The 
Vision of Theodore," " A Journey to the Western 
Islands of Scotland," and many other works, which our 
limits will not allow us to characterize, or even to 
enumerate. 

I i 2 



378 APPENDIX. 

In 1783, the palsy gave Johnson warning of the 
failure of his constitution. A melancholy, which in him 
was constitutional, and which had harassed him more or 
less through every period of his life, joined to a very 
scrupulous sense of duty, filled him with apprehension 
of an event, which few men have had so good a right to 
meet with fortitude. The last days of his existence were, 
however, less clouded by gloomy fears ; and he depart- 
ed this life, in the year 1784, with resignation and 
comfortable hope. 

Langhorne, John, an ingenious English writer, 
was born in Westmoreland : the year of his birth cannot 
be ascertained. After entering into orders, he became 
tutor to the sons of a gentleman in Lincolnshire, whose 
daughter he married. She lived but a short time ; 
and was very pathetically lamented by her husband, in 
a monody. This piece may rank with the celebrated 
elegiac compositions of Lyttleton and Shaw ; to which 
it is equal in poetical merit, and scarcely inferior in 
pathetic tenderness. 

Langhorne was the author of several literary produc- 
tions ; amongst which are, Sermons in 2 vols. ; " Effu- 
sions of Fancy," 2 vols : u Theodosius and Constantia," 
2 vols : " Solyman and Almena," u A Dissertation on 
Religious Retirement," and " A Translation of Plu- 
tarch's Lives." This translation is executed with an 
elegance, fidelity, spirit, and precision, that merit high 
commendation. The Life of Plutarch is well written ; 
and the Notes are very valuable. 

One oi his last publications was, " The Country Jus- 
tice," which appeared in 1777. This piece breathes 
throughout a genuine spirit of poetry and humanity. 
From this lime his health gradually declined ; and he 
died in 1 779. 



APPENDIX. 379 

Langhorne's private character appears to have been 
very amiable and excellent. — As a poet, his sentimental 
productions are tender and beautiful ; his descriptive 
compositions show a luxuriant imagination ; and his 
lyric pieces teem with the true spirit of poetical enthu- 
siasm. 

Logan, John, a Scottish divine and poet, was bora 
in the county of Mid Lothian, about the year 1748. 
After passing through the usual course of school edu- 
cation in the country, he was sent to the university of 
Edinburgh, where he completed his classical education, 
and afterwards applied with success to the several 
branches of philosophy and theology. In 1779, he 
delivered a series of lectures on the " Philosophy of 
History ;" and was gratified with the approbation and 
friendship of Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Ferguson, 
and other men of genius and learning. 

In 1781, he published " Elements of the Philoso- 
phy of History." This work displays deep penetra- 
tion, comprehensive views, and animated composition. 
The same year, he published a volume of poems ; in 
which he reprinted, with some alterations, the " Ode 
to the Cuckoo." This ode is highly distinguished by 
the delicate graces of simplicity and tenderness. 

After a lingering indisposition, he died in London, 
in 1788, in the 40th year of his age. 

In 1790, a volume of "Sermons," selected from 
his manuscripts, was published at Edinburgh, under 
the superintendence of Dr. Blair, Dr. Robertson, and 
Dr. Hardy, professor of ecclesiastical history in the uni- 
versity. — His Sermons, though not so highly polished 
as those of Dr. Blair, have been thought to possess, in 
a greater degree, the animated and passionate eloquence 
of Massillon and Atterbury. 



380 APPENDIX* 

Lyttleton, George, a nobleman of literary emi- 
nence, was born in 1709. He received the rudiments 
of education at Eton school, where he was so much 
distinguished, that his exercises were recommended as 
models to his school-fellows. From Eton he went to 
Christ-Church, Oxford, where he retained the same 
reputation of superiority. Here he wrote several of 
his pastorals ; and sketched the plan of his Persian 
Letters. 

In the year 1728, he set out on the tour of Europe. 
His conduct, while on his travels, was a lesson of in- 
struction to the rest of his countrymen. Instead of 
lounging away his hours at the coffee-houses frequent- 
ed by the English, and adopting the fashionable follies 
and vices of France and Italy, his time was passed al- 
ternately in his library, and in the society of men of 
rank and literature. On his return to England, he 
obtained a seat in parliament ; and distinguished him- 
self by his patriotic exertions. He afterwards filled, 
with great reputation, several high offices in the state ; 
and was created, by letters patent, a peer of Great 
Britain. In politics and public life, he made the ge- 
neral good the rule of his conduct. His speeches in 
parliament exhibit sound judgment, powerful eloquence, 
and inflexible integrity. 

In 1 742, he married Lucy, the daughter of Hugh 
Fortescue, Esq. This lady's exemplary conduct, and 
uniform practice of religion and virtue, placed his con- 
jugal happiness on the most promising basis. But in 
the course of four years, this excellent woman died, in 
the 29th year of her age. Lord Lyttelton, on this 
melancholy event, wrote a monody, which will be read 
while conjugal affection, and a taste for poetry, exist in 
this country. 



APPENDIX. 381 

In 1747, he produced his celebrated " Dissertation 
on the Conversion of St. Paul ;" a treatise to which 
infidelity has never been able to fabricate a specious 
answer. In 1760 he published his " Dialogues of the 
Dead;" in which the morality of Fenelon, and the 
spirit of Fontenelle, are happily united. His last lite- 
rary production was the " History of Henry the Se- 
cond," a labour of twenty years. This work is justly 
ranked among the most valuable historical performan- 
ces in the English language. It is executed with great 
fidelity. The style is perspicuous and unaffected, ge- 
nerally correct, and often elegant and masterly. The 
sentiments and remarks are judicious and pertinent ; 
liberal with respect to religion, and friendly to the 
cause of liberty and the rights of mankind. 

During the last ten years of Lord Lyttieton, he lived 
chiefly in retirement, in the continual exercise of all 
the virtues which can ennoble private life. — In the sum- 
mer of 1 773, he was suddenly seized with an inflamma- 
tion of the bowels, which soon terminated in his death. 
His last moments were attended with unimpaired un- 
derstanding, unaffected greatness of mind, calm resig- 
nation, and humble but confident hopes in the mercy 
of God. As he had lived universally esteemed, he 
died lamented by all parties. 

Melmoth, William, was born in 1710. His 
father was a bencher of Lincoln's Inn, and the author 
of that excellent treatise, entitled, " the Great Im- 
portance of a Religious Life." The present subject of 
our biographical sketch, was the author of the elegant 
classical letters, which bear the name of Sir Thomas 
Fitzosborne. He wrote also, Memoirs of his Father ; 
and published admirable translations of Pliny's and 
Cicero's Epistles. He died in 1799. 



382 APPENDIX. 

Merrick, James, an ingenious poet, was born 
about the year 1718. He was educated at Trinity 
college, Oxford; where he took his degrees in arts, 
and was elected fellow. He published " Poems on 
Sacred Subjects," and u A translation of Tryphiodo- 
rus," a Greek poet who wrote a poem on the destruc- 
tion of Troy : but the work by which he is most known 
is, " The Psalms translated or paraphrased." This 
is the best poetical English version of the psalms, now 
extant. His " Annotations on the Psalms," are very 
learned and judicious. They are interspersed with 
many valuable notes by the late archbishop Seeker. 

Merrick died at Reading in 1769. His character 
is fair and respectable. 

Milton, John, the most illustrious of the English 
poets, was descended from an ancient family at Milton 
near Oxford. He was born in London, in the year 
1608, and received the first rudiments of education 
under the care of his parents, assisted by a private tu- 
tor. For this tutor he felt a grateful regard ; and, 
during several years, held an affectionate correspon- 
dence with him. He was afterwards placed at St. 
Paul's school, where he applied so intensely to books, 
that he hurt his constitution, which naturally was not 
strong: for, from his twelfth year, he generally sat 
np half the night at his studies* This practice, with 
his frequent headachs, is supposed to have occasioned 
the first injury to his eyes. From St. Paul's school, 
he went to Cambridge, where he took his degrees in 
the arts. He was designed for the clerical office ; but 
not having much inclination for that profession, he 
declined it. 



APPfeNDIX. 383 

From 1632 to 1637, he resided at his father's house 
in Buckinghamshire ; where he enriched his mind 
with the choicest stores of Grecian and Roman learn- 
ing. Here he wrote his P Allegro, B Penseroso, and Ly- 
eidas, pieces which alone would have acquired for him 
a high literary fame. 

In 1638, he travelled into France and Italy; where 
he was treated with singular respect and kindness, by 
persons of the first eminence, both for rank and learn- 
ing. On his return to England, he settled in London, 
and kept a seminary for the education of a few chil- 
dren, sons of gentlemen. From this period to the 
restoration, he was so deeply engaged in the contro- 
versies of the times, that he found no leisure for polite 
learning. 

In 1651 appeared his famous book in answer to the 
Defence of the king, written by Salmasius, for which 
the parliament rewarded him with a thousand pounds. 
This piece was so severe, and so much read, that it is 
said to have killed his antagonist with vexation. Whilst 
he was writing this work he lost his eye-sight, which 
had been decaying for several years. 

The great work of " Paradise Lost," was finished 
in 1665. He sold the copy for Five pounds in hand, 
Five pounds more when 1300 should be sold, and the 
same sum on the publication of the second, and the 
third editions. Such was the first reception of a work 
that constitutes the glory and boast of English litera- 
ture ; a work that, notwithstanding the severity of cri- 
ticism, maybe ranked among the noblest efforts of hu- 
man genius. Of the moral sentiments of this perform- 
ance, it is hardly praise to affirm, that they excel those 
of all other poets. For this superiority he v, as indebt- 
ed to his accurate, knowledge of the sacred writings, 



384 APPENDIX. 

The ancient epic poets, wanting the light of Revelation, 
were very unskilful teachers of virtue : their principal 
characters may be great, but they are not amiable. 
The reader may rise from their works, with a greater 
degree of active or passive fortitude, and sometimes of 
prudence : but he will oe able to carry away few precepts 
of justice, and none of mercy. 

The " Paradise Regained" appeared three years after 
the publication of Paradise Lost. It has suffered much 
by comparison : it is obscured by the splendour of its 
predecessor. But had any other than Milton been the 
author, it would have claimed and received universal 
applause. 

Our author, worn down with the gout, paid the 
debt of nature, in 1674. His funeral was splendidly 
and numerously attended. 

Murray, William, earl of Mansfield, was born at 
Perth, in 1705. He was happily endowed by nature, 
and happily educated. He was bred to the law ; and 
after filling several distinguished stations, was, in 1756, 
made chief justice of the king's Bench. His merits as 
a lawyer, and his attachment to the common law of En- 
gland, have been variously appreciated. He had warm 
friends and zealous enemies. The address of the gen- 
t.emen of the Bar to him, after his resignation of office, 
is an honourable testimony to his merit ; and virtually 
refutes the charges made against him. 

Lord Mansfield was a most eloquent speaker. His 
eloquence was not, indeed, of that daring, declamatory 
kind, so irresistibly powerful in the momentary bustle of 
popular assemblies ; but it was possessed of that pure and 
Attic spirit, and seductive power of persuasion, that 
delight, instruct, and eventually triumph. 



APPENDIX. 335 

After having long eminently served his king and 
country, he perceived the infirmities of body to press 
upon him; and, in 1788, he thought it his duty to 
resign the office of chief justice, and to retire from pub- 
lic business. From this period, his bodily powers con- 
tinued to decline ; and in 1 793 he died, in the 89th 
year of his age. 

The last will of lord Mansfield begins with the fol- 
lowing elegant and pious paragraph, with which we 
shall close our sketch of him. 

"When it shall please Almighty God to call me to 
that state, to which, of all I now enjoy I can carry only 
the satisfaction of my own conscience, and a full reli- 
ance upon his mercy through Jesus Christ, I desire 
that my body may be interred as privately as may be: 
and out of respect for the place of my early education, 
I should wish it to be in Westminster Abbev." 

Parnell, Dr. Thomas, a well known poet, con- 
temporary with Pope, Swift, &c. was born in Dublin 
in 1679. When he was only thirteen years old, he 
became a member of Trinity College, Dublin: and in 
1700 was admitted to the degree of Master of Arts. 
About three years afterwards, he entered into Priests 
orders : and, about the same time, married a young 
woman of great beauty and merit. He first visited 
England about the year 1706, where his friendship 
was very generally sought, even before he had distin- 
guished himself by his writings. Pope was particular- 
ly fond of his company ; and appears to have been un- 
der some obligations to him, in his translation of the 
Iliad. 

Amidst his honours and expectations, he had the 
affliction to lose his amiable wife, which made a deep 

Kk 



386 APPENDIX. 

impression on his mind. They had lived together, in 
great conjugal felicity. His grief for this loss induced 
him to seek relief in society ; and brought on habits 
which were injurious to his health. He died at Ches- 
ter, in his way to Ireland, in the thirty ninth year of 
his age. 

Parnell was a man of great benevolence, and very 
agreeable manners: his conversation is said to have 
been extremely pleasing. His prose writings are, his 
papers in the Spectator and Guardian, his Essay on Ho- 
mer, Life of Zoilus, and Remarks on Zoilus. In ge- 
neral, they have not been thought to display a great 
degree of force or comprehension cf mind : but they 
are rich in imagery, and full of learning, good sense, 
and knowledge of mankind. As a poet, he is not 
distinguished by strength of intellect, or fertility of in- 
vention. -His taste was delicate, and improved by 
classical study; but his admiration of the ancients in 
some degree precluded originality. His thoughts, with- 
out being very new, are just and pleasing. The ima- 
ges, though not great, are well selected and happily 
- applied : his sentiments are natural and agreeable. 
The moral tendency of his poems, is excellent; and 
his language pure and correct. The Night Piece on 
Death deserves everv praise. It is indirectly preferred 
by Goldsmith to Gray's " Elegy ;" but, in Dr. John- 
son's opinion, Gray has the advantage, in dignity, vari- 
ety, and originality of sentiment. The most popular 
of Parnell's poems has always been his Hermit ; which 
is certainly conspicuous for piety of design, utility of 
moral, and elegance of description. 

Philips, Ambrose, an English poet, descended 
from an ancient iamilv in Leicestershire, was born in - 



APPENDIX. 387 

1671. He was educated at St. John's college, Cam- 
bridge. During his stay at the university, he wrote 
his " Pastorals," which at the time acquired him a high 
reputation. He possessed the friendship and intimacy 
of many of the celebrated geniuses of that age. But 
he had the misfortune to be disliked by Pope ; the 
ground of which is supposed to be, that jealousy of fame, 
which was so conspicuous in the character of this great 
poet. 

In 1709 Philips wrote a little poem called " A Win- 
ter Piece," dated at Copenhagan, and addressed to the 
earl of Dorset. This is a piece of descriptive poetry 
eminently beautiful. Sir Richard Steele mentions it, 
in the Tatler, with honour, M This is," says h^ a as 
fine a piece as we ever had from any of the schools of 
the most learned painters. Such images as these give 
US a new pleasure in our sight ; and fix upon our minds 
traces of reflection, which accompany us wherever the 
like objects occur." Pope himself always excepted this 
piece from the general censure he passed on Philips's 
works. 

Philips wrote also " The Life of Archbishop Wil- 
liams ;" and several dramatic pieces ; and was concern- 
ed in a series of papers called the " Free Thinker." 
He died in the year 1749, and in his 78th year. He 
appears to have been a man of integrity. 

Pitt, William, one of the most illustrious statesmen 
and orators that have ever appeared in the world, was 
born in 1708. His vigilance and sagacity in office, 
were only equalled by his disinterestedness. He was 
a most animated and powerful speaker : his eloquence 
often shook the senate, and echoed through the king- 
dom. This great man enjoyed the public confidence 



388 



APPENDIX. 



to a degree seldom, or never, before witnessed by any 
statesman.-— He died in 1778; and a monument" was 
erected in Westminster Abbey, to his memory, with 
the following highly honourable inscription. 

Erected by the King and Parliament* 

as a testimony to 

The virtues and ability 

of 

William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, 

During whose administration 

Divine Providence 

Exalted Great Britain 

To an height of prosperity and glory 

Unknown to any former age. 

Pliny the younger was born at Como, in the year 
62. He brought into the world with him fine parts 
and an elegant taste, which he did not fail to cultivate 
early ; for, at fourteen years of age, he wrote a Greek 
tragedy. He frequented the schools of the rhetori- 
cians, and heard Quintilian ; for whom he entertained 
so high an esteem, that he bestowed a considerable por- 
tion upon his daughter, at her marriage. In his 
eighteenth year, he began to plead in the Forum, which 
was the usual road to dignities. Here he displayed un- 
common abilities and eloquence. 

He was promoted to the consulate by the emperor 
Trajan, in the year 100, when he was 38 years of age. 
In this office, he pronounced that celebrated panegyric 
on Trajan, which has ever since been admired, as well 
for the copiousness of the topics as the elegance of ad- 
dress. It has always been considered as a master-piece 
of composition and eloquence. His " Epistles," are 
written with great politeness and spirit; and abound 



APPENDIX. 389 

with interesting anecdotes of many eminent persons. 
Pliny died about the year 116. — His manners, not- 
withstanding the general contagion of the age in which 
he lived, were pure. His writings breathe a spirit of 
transcendant goodness and humanity: his only imper- 
fection appears to be, too great a desire that the public 
and posterity should know how humane and good he 
was. 

Pope, Alexander, an English poet of the first emi- 
nence, was born in London, in the year 1688. His 
father was a linen draper, and a distant relation of the 
earl of Downe. He was taught to read very early, by 
an aunt; and learned to write without any assistance, 
by copying printed books. The family being of the 
Roman catholic religion, he was placed at eight years 
of age under the care of a priest, who taught him the 
rudiments of the Latin and Greek tongues together. 
From the disadvantages he laboured under, in point of 
tuition, he may be properly said to be one of those who 
are self-taught. 

He early discovered an inclination to versify ; and, 
at fifteen, he had scribbled a great deal of poetry of 
various kinds. Though, at first, he was a little in- 
toxicated with the waters of Helicon, he afterwards at- 
tained to great sobriety of thought. " I confess," says 
he, u there was a time, when I was in love with my- 
self j and my first productions were the children of 
self-love and of innocence. • I had made an epic poem, 
and panegyrics on all the princes ; and I thought my- 
self the greatest genius that ever was. But these de- 
lightful visions are vanished for ever." 

In 1704 he published his " Pastorals," which first 
introduced him to the wits of that period. His u Essay 

k k2 



^90 APPENDIX. 

on Criticism" appeared in 1708. Of this work Dr. 
Johnson observes, that if he had written nothing else, 
it would have placed him among the first critics and 
the first poets ; as it exhibits every mode of excellence 
that can embellish or dignify didactic composition ; 
selection of matter, novelty of arrangement, justness 
of precept, splendour of illustration, and propriety of 
digression. In 1712, he published u The Rape of 
the Lock." This is the most attractive of ail ludi- 
crous compositions. The creative power of imagina- 
tion, which properly constitutes a poet, is, perhaps, 
more evident in this poem, than in all his other works 
put together. In 1715, he produced his "Iliad;" 
a translation of eminent merit. It is not the work of 
a mere scholar or versifier: it is the performance of a 
poet. This version is so exquisitely harmonious, that 
it may be said to have tuned the English tongue. 
In the year 1728, his " Dunciad" appeared. As 
a work of wit and ingenious satire, it has few equals. 
Without approving the petulance and malignity of the 
design, it may be said, that the vigour of intellect, and 
the fertility of fancy, which it displays, are equally ad- 
mirable. In 1733, he published his u Essay on man." 
Whatever objections may be made to this work, as an 
ethical system, the reader will find it a storehouse of 
great and generous sentiments: he will seldom rise 
from the nerusal of it, without feeling his mind anima- 
ted with the love of virtue ^ -and improved in benevo- 
lence towards his fellow creatures, and piety towards 
his Creator. 

Pope was the author of many other poems, which 
cannot be enumerated in this sketch. — In 1743, he 
found his constitution much impaired ; and he declined 
gradually till his death, which happened in ihe 57th 
year of his age. 



APPENDIX. 391 

. Prior, Matthew, an eminent English poet, was born 
in London in 1664. His father died whilst he was 
very young ; and an uncle, who was a vintner, gave him 
some education at Westminster school ; and afterwards 
took him home, to train him to his own occupation. 
Young Prior, however, at his leisure hours, prosecuted 
the study of the classics, and especially of his favourite 
Horace. This introduced him to some polite company, 
who frequented his uncle's house. The earl of Dor- 
set took particular notice of him ; and procured his 
being sent to Cambridge, where he became a fellow of 
St. John's college. He was brought to court by the 
earl of Dorset. He served as secretary to several em- 
bassies ; and in 1697 he was madesecretary of state for 
Ireland. In 1700 he was appointed one of the lords 
commissioners of trade and plantations ; and in 1711, 
he was sent minister plenipotentiary to France, to ne- 
gotiate a peace with that kingdom. Amidst his various 
public employments, he found time to indulge his poe- 
tical talents : and published many pieces, which have 
been much read and applauded. As a poet, he holds a 
high rank for elegance and correctness. His Alma has 
many admirers. Of this poem, Pope said, that he 
could wish to have been the author. " The paraphrase 
on St. Paul's Exhortation to Charity," Dr. Johnson 
says " is eminently beautiful." 

Prior spent the latter years of his life in tranquillity 
and retirement, and died in the year 1721. 

Robertson, William, a celebrated historian, was 
born in Scotland, in 1721. When his studies at the 
university of Edinburgh, were completed, he was licens- 
ed to preach ; and./ in 1743, two years afterwards, was 
presented to the living of Gladsmuir in East Lothian, 



392 APPENDIX. 



The income was inconsiderable, not exceeding one 
hundred pounds a year : but the preferment came to 
him at a time singularly favourable ; for soon afterwards 
both his parents died, leaving a family of six daughters 
and a younger son, in such circumstances as required 
every aid which his slender funds enabled him to bestow. 
Undeterred by the magnitude of a charge, which must 
have appeared fatal to the prospects that had hitherto 
animated his studies, he resolved to sacrifice to a sacred 
duty all personal considerations ; and, accordingly, he 
invited his father's family to Gladsmuir, and continued 
to educate his sisters under his own roof, till they were 
settled respectably in the world. This conduct bears 
the most honourable testimony to the generosity of his 
disposition, and the warmth of his affections. 

In 1759, he published his " History of Scotland.' ' 
This work was received by the world with applause so 
unbounded, that, before the end of a month from its 
publication, he was desired by his bookseller to prepare 
for a second edition. In 1769, appeared his u History 
of Charles the Fifth," and in 1777, the " History o£ 
America." It is not possible to speak of these works, 
in higher terms of praise, than they deserve. With 
respect to selection of materials, impartiality, arrange- 
ment, language, and interesting representation, they 
scarcely have any equal in historical composition. 

In 1789, he produced " An Historical Disquisition 
concerning Ancient India." This work, which he per- 
formed in twelve months, exhibits, in every part, a 
diligence in research, a soundness of judgment, and a 
perspicuity of method, little, if at all, inferior to those 
which distinguish his other performances. 

He was principal of the university of Edinburgh, 
historiographer for Scotland, and one of the king's 
chaplains for that country. He died in 1793. 



APPENDIX, 393. 

Rollin, Charles, a Frenchman, celebrated for elo- 
quence, and skill in the belles-lettres, was the son of a 
cutler at Paris, and born there in 1661. He early dis- 
tinguished himself by parts and application, and easily 
obtained the first rank among his fellow students. In 
1688, he became professor of eloquence, in the royal col- 
lege ; and no man ever exercised its functions with grea- 
ter eclat. In 1694, he was chosen rector of the univer- 
sity of Paris. Here he made many useful regulations. 
He substituted academical exercises in the place of 
tragedies, and promoted among the students a greater 
attention to die Holy Scriptures. He was indefatigable 
in business, and educated a very great number of per- 
sons who did honour to the various departments of the 
state. 

By the intrigues of ill-disposed persons, he was de* 
prived of his office in the .uiliv^Uy. Sue whatever 
that seminary might suffer from the removal of Rollin, 
the public was a gainer: for he then applied himself^ 
to compose his treatise upon the "Manner of Studying 
and Teaching the Belles Lettres," which was published 
in 1726. This work has been much esteemed, and 
exceedingly successful. In 1738, appeared his " An- 
cient History." Of this publication Voltaire says, " It 
is the best compilation that has yet appeared in any 
language." He published soon afterwards his "Roman 
History." This performance was not so successful as 
his " Ancient History." It is, indeed, rather a moral 
and historical discourse, than a formal history. The 
reader will, however, find it replete with instruction.. 

This excellent person died in 1741. — He was a man 
of an admirable composition, very ingenious, consum- 
mate in polite learning, of rigid morals, and eminently 
pious. In all respects, except a little zeal of a super* 



394 APPENDIX. 

stitious nature, he was a very estimable and irreproach- 
able character. We find in his works, generous and 
exalted sentiments ; a zeal for the good of society ; 
a love of virtue ; a veneration for Providence ; and, 
in short, every thing, though on profane subjects, sanc- 
tified with a spirit truly religious. 

Sallustius, Caius Crispus, a Latin historian, was 
born in Italy 85 years before the Christian era. He 
was an excellent writer. Of his numerous works, 
nothing remains but his u History of Cataline's Con- 
spiracy," and of the " Jugurthine Wars," with a few 
orations. No man has inveighed more sharply against 
the vices of his age than this historian: yet few per- 
sons had less pretensions to virtue than Sallust. On 
this occasion, it may be observed, that virtue derives 
some sanction from the praises of vicious men, whose 
reason forces them to approve what their passions will 
not suffer them to practise. 

Scott, John, an English poet, was born in the 
year 1730. In 1760, he published four " Elegies, 
descriptive and moral," which obtained the approba- 
tion of Dr. YcunQ-, and of several other eminent cha- 
racters. When the author of the " Night Thoughts" 
received a copy of the u Elegies" from his bookseller, 
he returned his acknowledgment in these words, " I 
thank you for your present. I admire the poetry and 
piety of the author; and shall do myself the credit to 
recommend it to all my friends." In 1782, he publish- 
ed a volume of poems: besides which he wrote some 
ingenious essays, in fugitive miscellanies. His " Am- 
well" is an easy and melodious descriptive poem. And 
the " Critical Essays" possess a considerable degree of 



APPENDIX. 395 

merit. His muse was singularly chaste and delicate. 
He was a man of great benevolence ; and a zealous ad- 
vocate for the poor and distressed. His charity was 
not limited to speculative benevolence ; for he searched 
out, and relieved, the objects who stood in need of his 
bounty, and consolation. He died in 1783. 

Seed, Jeremiah, an English divine, was born at 
Clifton, near Penrith, in Cumberland. He had his 
school education at Lowther; and his academical, at 
Queen's college, in Oxford, of which society he was 
chosen fellow, in 1732. The greater part of his life 
was spent at Twickenham, where he was assistant or cu- 
rate to Dr. Waterland. He published two volumes of 
excellent " Discourses on several important subjects." 
He died in 1747. — Seed was exemplary in his morals: 
he had an able head, and a most excellent heart. 

Smart, Christopher, a poet of some celebrity, was 
born in Kent, in 1722. He was one of those boys, 
whose minds display more early vigour than their bodies. 
He soon discovered a taste for poetry, which was en- 
couraged and cultivated. At seventeen he was remov- 
ed from school to Pembroke-Hall at Cambridge. 

The slender means of support which he possessed, 
were ill adapted to his constant temptation to mix with 
a variety of company, which the admiration of his ta- 
lents, his classical attainments, and his vivacity, produc- 
ed. At college, therefore, he drew upon himself em- 
barrassments which oppressed him during life. In 1753, 
he married and settled in London, having determined 
to subsist by his powers as an author. But this mode 
of life neither augmented his personal importance, nor 
the credit of his productions. As he was never suffi- 



.396 APPENDIX. 

ciently delicate in his person, his taste, or his acquaint- 
ance, he lost his dignity, his time, and his peace of 
mind. Yet, at one period, he enjoyed the familiar 
acquaintance of Dr. Johnson, Dr. James, Dr. Hawkes- 
worth, J3r. Goldsmith, and most of the persons in 
London, who were then celebrated for genius or 
learning. 

Though his constitution, as well as his fortune, re- 
quired the utmost care, he was equally negligent of 
both : and his various repeated embarrassments, acting 
upon an imagination uncommonly fervid, produced 
temporary alienations of mind ; which, at last, became 
so violent and continued, as to render confinement ne- 
cessary. At length, after suffering the accumulated 
miseries of poverty, disease, and insanity, he died of a 
disorder m his liver, in 1771, in the 49th year of his 
age. 

His writings consist of Prize Poems, Odes, Sonnets, 
Fables, Latin and English Translations. &c. His fine 
poems on the Divine Attributes, are written with the 
sublimest energies of religion, and the true enthusiasm 
of poetry. In composing them, he was frequently so 
impressed with sentiments of devotion, as to write 
particular passages on his knees. The character of 
Smart was strongly varied by excellences and failings. 
He was friendly, affectionate, and liberal to excess; so 
much so, as often to give that to others, of which he 
was in the utmost want himself. His chief fault, from 
which most of his other faults proceeded, was his de- 
viation from the rules of sobriety; of which the early 
use of cordials, in the infirm state of his childhood and 
youth, might, perhaps, be one cause, and is the only 
extenuation- 



APPENDIX. - 397 

TtfOMSON, James, an excellent British poet, was 
born in the shire of Roxburgh, in the year 1700. 
From the school of Jedburgh, where he was taught 
the common rudiments of learning, he was removed 
to the university of Edinburgh. But at neither of 
these seminaries was he distinguished by any remark- 
able superiority of parts. He was educated with a 
view to the ministry ; but his genius strongly inclining 
him to the study of poetry, he chose to relinquish his 
intention of engaging in the sacred function. 

In 1726, he published his excellent poem on Win- 
ter. Though it was not, at first, eagerly received by 
the readers of poetry, it soon met with great applause : 
and Thomson's acquaintance was courted by persons 
of the first taste and fashion. The expectations which 
his Winter had raised, were fully satisfied, by the suc- 
cessive publications of the other seasons ; of Summer, 
in the year 1 727 ; of Spring, in the following year : 
and of Autumn, in 1730. 

Soon after these works had appeared, he travelled 
with the honourable Charles Talbot, and visited most 
of the courts of Europe. He returned to England 
with his views greatly enlarged; not only of exterior 
nature, and the works of art, but of human life and 
manners, and of the constitution and policy of the se- 
veral states, their connexions, and their religious insti- 
tutions. How particular and judicious his observations 
had been, we see in his poem on Liberty, which was 
begun a short time after he returned from his travels. 
In this poem we have the master pieces of ancient and 
modern art, placed in a stronger light than many visi- 
tors can see them with their own eyes. 

He composed and produced several dramatic per- 
formances, most of which met with public appro- 

U 



398 APPENDIX. 

bation. The last piece that he lived to publish, was 
u The castle of Indolence." It was many years under 
his hands, and finished, at last, with great accuracy. 
It is perhaps, the most perfect of all his compositions. 
It is embellished with all the decorations which poeti- 
cal imagination could confer. The plan is artfully 
laid, and naturally conducted, and the descriptions rise 
in a beautiful succession. 

In the summer of 1748, he was seized with a fever, 
which soon put a period to his life. 

Thomson was an amiable and good man. His love 
of mankind, of his country and friends; his devotion 
to the Supreme Being, founded on the most elevated 
and just conceptions of his operations and providence, 
shine brightly in his writings. He possessed great be- 
nevolence of heart, which extended even to the brute 
creation. Through his whole life, he was not known 
to give any person a moment's pain, either by his wri- 
tings or otherwise. These amiable virtues, this divine 
temper of mind, did not fail to receive their due re- 
ward. The best and greatest men of his time honour- 
ed him with their friendship and protection ; the fa- 
vour and applause of the public attended him; his 
friends loved him with an enthusiastic ardour, and sin- 
cerelv lamented his death. 

As a writer, he is entitled to one praise of the high- 
est kind, — his mode of thinking, and of expressing his 
thoughts, is original. He thinks always as a man of 
genius : he looks round on nature, and on life, with 
the eve which nature only bestows on a poet, the eye 
that distinguishes in every thing presented to its view, 
whatever there is on which imagination can delight to 
be detained ; and with a mind that at once compre- 
hends the vast, and attends to the minute. The reader 



APPENDIX. 



399 



of the " Seasons" wonders that he never saw before 
what Thomson shows him, and that he had never felt 
what Thomson impresses. 

Watts, Dr. Isaac, a learned and eminent dissent- 
ing minister, was born at Southampton, in 1674, of 
parents remarkable for piety and virtue. From his in- 
fancy, he discovered a strong propensity to learning ; 
and was early distinguished for the sprightliness ot his 
wit ; which, even in the years of younger life, was re- 
gulated by a deep sense of religion. At the school at 
Southampton, he was taught Latin, Greek, and Hebrew; 
and in 1690 was sent to an academy in London, to com- 
plete his education. His tutor declared that during 
the whole time of his tuition at this academy, he was 
not only so inoffensive as never to give occasion for 
reproof ; but so exemplary, that he often proposed him 
as a pattern to his other pupils. 

In 1696, he was invited by Sir John Hartopp, to 
reside in his family at Stoke Newington, as tutor to his 
son. Here he continued about four years ; and ac- 
quitted himself with fidelity and reputation. Believing 
it to be his duty, he determined to devote his life to the 
pastoral office, of the importance of which, he had a 
deep sense upon his mind. He began to preach on his 
birth-day 1698, when he bad completed his 24th year ; 
and he met with general acceptance. 

In 1712, he had a severe fever, which, by its violence 
and continuance, reduced him so much that he never 
perfectly recovered. The languishing state of hi§ 
health drew upon him the attention of Sir Thomas 
Abney, who received him into his house ; where, with 
a constancy of friendship and uniformity of conduct 
not often to be found, he was treated for thirty-six years, 



400 APPENDIX. 

with all the kindness that friendship could prompt, 
and all the attention that respect could dictate. From 
the time of his reception in this family, his life was 
no otherwise diversified than by successive labours for 
the good of mankind; the number and variety of 
which show the intenseness of his industry, and the 
extent of his capacity. In 1728, the universities of 
Edinburgh and Aberdeen, without his knowledge, con- 
ferred on him the degree of Doctor of Divinity. 

His writings are so numerous, that in this sketch, 
we cannot even give a list of them. They were col- 
lected and published in 1754, in 6 volumes quarto. 
His Lyric Poems, his Psalms and Hymns, and his Di- 
vine Songs for Children, are a sufficient proof of his 
poetical talents. They have had an amazing number 
of editions. His treatise on Logic, a masterly perform- 
ance, has been long used in the most distinguished se- 
minaries. His u Improvement of the Mind" is an 
excellent work, which may be recommended to all 
young persons. 

This worthy and exemplary man became, towards 
the end of his days, so infirm that he was confined to 
his chamber and his bed, where he was worn gradually 
away, without pain, till he expired in the 75th year 
of his age. 

Watts's intellectual and moral accomplishments are 
universally allowed to have been, in the highest degree, 
respectable and amiable. His acquaintance with the 
most celebrated writers, both ancient and modern, en- 
riched his mind with a large and uncommon store of 
just sentiments, and useful knowledge of various kinds. 
As a Christian, he was eminent for pure and undis- 
sembled piety, humility, candour, and charity, He 
maintained a free and friendly correspondence with 



APPENDIX. 401 

Christians of different parties and denominations. He 
engaged in controversy with a pacific view, to heal and 
reconcile disputes among Christians, rather than to make 
proselytes to any party ; and he wrote with such a spirit 
of meekness and love, as is truly instructive and exem- 
plary. His singular patience, and pious resignation to 
the will of God, in seasons of affliction, eminently de- 
noted the true Christian. 

Wilkie, William, a Scottish poet, was born in the 
year 1721. He received his early education at the pa- 
rish school of Dalmeny, under the care of a very re- 
spectable and successful teacher. At the age of thirteen, 
he was sent to the university of Edinburgh, where he 
distinguished himself in the different classes of languages,, 
philosophy, and theology ; and formed many of those 
friendships and connexions whidh afforded him much 
happiness through life. In 1757, he published his 
" Epigoniad," a poem in nine books. Hume charac- 
terised this work, " as one of the ornaments of our 
language." His " Fables" were produced in 1768. 
Previous to this publication, the university of St. An- 
drews conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Di- 
vinity. He was fond of agriculture, and remarkable 
for his knowledge of its different branches. After a 
lingering indisposition, he died at St. Andrews in 1773, 
in the 51st year of his age. 

Wilkie was very attentive to the duties of religion. 
He employed a considerable portion of his time in read- 
ing the Holy Scriptures ; and he regularly kept up the 
worship of God in his family. In every situation of 
life, he was kind to persons in distress, and very liberal 
in his private charity. 

As a poet, his compositions are not less distinguish* 

Ll 2 



402 APPENDIX. 

cd by imagination and judgment, than his manners were 
remarkable for eccentricity and originality. His " Epi- 
goniad," if he had written nothing else, is sufficient to 
entitle him to an honourable rank amongst British po- 
ets. His " Fables" discover an ingenious and acute 
turn of mind, and a thorough knowledge of the nature 
and manners of men : but they are not recommended 
by a great degree of poetical spirit. If Wilkie's Fables 
do not possess the ease of Gay, the elegance of Moore, 
or the humour and poignancy of Smart, they have the 
merit of an artless and easy versification ; of just ob- 
servation; and even, occasionally of deep reasoning: 
and they abound in strokes of pathetic simplicity. 

Young, Edward, was the son of a clergyman of 
the same name, and was born in 1681. At a proper 
age, he was matriculated of All-Souls college, Oxford, 
being designed for the civil law, in which profession 
he took a degree. In 1713, he published his poem 
called "The Last Day," which was soon followed 
by " The Force of Religion," or " Vanquished Love." 
These productions were iiighly approved; and pro- 
cured him many respectable friends. He was intimate 
with Addison, for whose " Spectator," he wrote many 
papers. The turn of his mind inclining him towards 
the church, he entered into orders, was made chap- 
lain to the king, and obtained the rectory of Welwyn, 
worth about 5001. per annum : but he never rose to 
higher preferment, though it was long the object of 
his solicitude. 

When he was pretty far advanced in life, he marri- 
ed lady Elizabeth Lee, daughter of the earl of Litch- 
field. This lady was a widow, and had an amiable son 
and daughter, both of whom died young. What he 



APPENDIX. 40o 

felt for their loss, as well as for that of his wife, is finely 
expressed in his " Night Thoughts;" in which the 
young lady is characterized under the name of Nar- 
cissa ; her brother, by that of Philander ; and his wife, 
though nameless, is frequently mentioned. 

His satires, called u Love of Fame the Universal 
Passion," have always been much esteemed. His 
** Complaint," or " Night Thoughts," exhibit him as 
a moral and deeply serious poet, and are his principal 
performance. For this grand and rich mass of solemn 
poetry, he has received unbounded applause. As an 
essayist, his u Centaur not Fabulous," and " Con- 
jectures on Original Composition," are his most consi- 
derable productions. This last mentioned work, he 
published when he was more than eighty years of age f 

He died in 1765, very much regretted both here 
and in foreign countries. 

Dr. Young's turn of mind was naturally solemn. 
When at home in the country, he usually spent many 
hours of the day, walking in his own church yard 
among the tombs. His conversation and his writings 
mostly have some reference to a future life: and this 
serious disposition mixed itself even with his improve- 
ments in gardening. He had the representation of an 
alcove and a seat, so well painted, that, at a distance, 
it had the complete appearance of reality. On ap- 
proaching it, the deception was perceived, and this 
motto appeared, Invtsibilia non decipiunt y M The things 
unseen do not deceive us." He was, however, fond 
of innocent sports and amusement; and often promo- 
ted the cheerfulness of his company. His wit was ge- 
nerally poignant, and was often levelled against those 
who testified any contempt for decency or religion. It 
may be truly said, that he filled his post with great 

dignity. 

THE END, 



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EDITIONS OF ALL 

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RECOMMEND A TIONS 

OF THIS WORK. 

" We notice this useful volume of Mr. Murray, for 
the sake of the additions and improvements which it has 
received in this edition. The selections are enlarged by 
nine different articles ; of which it is enough to say, that 
they display Mr. Murray's taste, judgment, and acquaint- 
ance with English literature ; and that enlightened re- 
gard to religion and morality, which so eminently quali- 
fies him to guide the studies of youth. What, however, 
chiefly deserves our remark, is an Appendix annexed to 
this edition, containing Biographical Sketches of the au- 
thors mentioned in the "Introduction to theEnglish Read- 
er," the " English Reader" itself, and the " Sequel to 
the Reader; 9 ' with occasional strictures on their writings, 
and references to the particular works by which they 
have been most distinguished. These Sketches are un- 
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mind." Literary. Journal, February, 1805. 

" We have already borne our testimony to the high 
merit of Mr. Murray, as an acute grammarian, and as 
blending in his various works, with uncommon happi- 
ness, a delicate and correct taste both in literature and 
morals. We are pleased, though not surprised, to see 
that the public has demanded a new edition of the res- 
pectable work now before us." 

Annual Review^ 1804. 



( 405 ) 






il We regard, as a very valuable improvement, the 
biographical and critical Appendix, introduced into this 
edition of the " Sequel to the English Reader." It 
contains short, but instructive accounts of all the authors 
from whose works both these selections have been form- 
ed, those excepted who are yet living. This compila- 
tion (the Sequel) appears more free from objectionable 
passages, and better adapted to the improvement of 
youth, than any other of the kind which we have seen.'' 

Eclectic Review, June, 1803. 

w The second edition of this excellent school book 
contains the addition of nine extracts selected from 
Addison, Carter, Hawkesworth, &c. An Appendix 
also of 62 pages is subjoined, containing Biographical 
Sketches of the authors from whom this selection is 
made. These are executed with brevity and neatness. — 
We have no hesitation in recommending the selection, 
as the best of its kind." Critical Review, May, 1805. 

2. Abridgment of Murray's Grammar. 

3. English Grammar. 

4. English Exercises. 

5. A Key to the Exercises. 

" Having already expressed at large our approbation 
of Mr. Murray's English Grammar, we have only, in 
announcing this Abridgment, to observe, that it appears 
to us to be made with great judgment; and that we do 
not know a performance of this kind better fitted for 
the use of children. This small Grammar has also the 
recommendation of being very neatly printed." 

Analytical Reviexv, October, 1798. 

The late learned Dr. Blair gave his opinion of this 
work in the following terms :« — l Mr. Lindley Murray's 
4 Grammar, with the Exercises and the Key in a sepa- 
4 rate volume, I esteem as a most excellent performance. 
4 I think it superior to any work of that nature we have 
4 yet had ; and am persuaded that it is, by much, the 

* best Grammar of the English language extant. On 

* Syntax, in particular, he has shown a wonderful de- 
4 gree of acuteness and precision, in ascertaining the 



( 406 ) 

1 propriety of language, and in rectifying the number- 
i less errors which writers are apt to commit. Most 
4 useful these books must certainly be to all who are ap- 
4 plying themselves to the arts of composition.' 

Guardian of Education, July, 1803. 

" This Grammar is a publication of much merit, and 
fully answers the professions in the title. The'Appendix 
contains some of the best rules for writing elegantly, 
and with propriety, that we recollect to have seen." 

Monthly Revietv, 1796, 1797. 

" Mr. Murray's Grammar, as well as his other pub- 
lications, has received the uniform approbation of lite- 
rary characters and journalists. We do not hesitate 
warmly to recommend them to the instructors of youth 
in every part of the United States, as eminently condu- 
cive to pure morality and religion, and to the acquisition 
of a correct and elegant style. They deserve to take 
place of all other works of the same kind which are now 
used in our schools." 

The American Review and Literary journal for 
July, August, and September, 1801. 

6. Introduction to the English Reader. 

44 We have, on former occasions, given our opinion 
of Mr. Murray's compilations, which the present vol- 
ume has not altered, or diminished. The selection 
here offered to the public, is made with judgment ; and 
we doubt not will be useful to those, for whose instruc- 
tion it is designed." 

European Magazine, August, 1801, 

44 Animated by the favourable reception of the " En- 
glish Reader," Mr. Murray here pursues the same 
object; and has not only compiled a judicious and 
well-arranged supplement for the higher classes of 
learners, (The Sequel to the English Reader, J but in or- 
der to complete his undertaking, has prepared an Intro- 
duction to it,' for the younger classes. We have no 
doubt that the public, will be pleased with the addi- 
tions, to both the fronts of the original building. The 
whole is truly useful and well-arranged." 

Monthly Review, August, 1801. 



( 407 ) 

7. The English Reader. 

" The plan of this work is highly commendable, and 
the execution is good. We are particularly pleased 
with the Compiler's having avoided every sentiment? 
that might gratify a corrupt mind, or, in the least de- 
gree, offend the eye or ear of Innocence." 

Gentleman's Magazine, February, 1799. 

" This compilation is well calculated to accomplish 
the ends proposed. The selection is made with judg- 
ment ; and the pieces are such as may be recommend- 
ed to the perusal of youth." 

European Magazine, October, 1799. 

" This work may be recommended as a useful com- 
panion to the young of both sexes." 

Critical Review, *fuli>, 1799. 

" We have formerly mentioned with praise, " Eng- 
lish Exercises," by this Author. The present publi- 
cation is well adapted for the use of young persons. 
The selections are made with good taste ; and with a 
view to moral and religious improvement, as well as 
mere entertainment." British Critic, April, 1800. 

u This selection reflects much credit on the taste of 
the Compiler, and the arrangement of the various pieces 
is judicious. The preliminary rules for enunciation are 
useful, and clearly delivered. We therefore recom- 
mend this small volume to those who wish to attain, 
without the help of instructors, the important advan- 
tages of thinking and speaking with propriety." 

Monthly Review, August, 1 799. 

" Mr. Murray is entitled to great commendation for 
the care and judgment evidently displayed in the useful 
collection before us, which is literally what it professes 
to be ; and is, of course, well calculated for the pur- 
poses which its author intended to accomplish. None 
but extracts the most unexceptionable are here offered 
to the study of youth; and such as have an immediate 
tendency at once to correct their taste, and to improve 
their minds." 

Anti-jacobin Review, December, 1802. 



( 408 ) 

**. A First Book for Children. 

9. An Engliih Spelling-Book; with Reading les- 
sons adapted to the capacities of children : in three 
parts, calculated to advance the learners by natural 
and easy gradations ; and to teach Orthography, and 
Pronunciation together. Fourth edition, enlarged. 

" An English Spelling-Book from the author of the 
" English Grammar," will undoubtedly excite consi- 
derable expectation from those who have been in the 
habit of using the latter; and we doubt not, that 
in process of time, the spelling-book will have as 
many admirers as the grammar has already ob- 
tained. We are glad to see that Mr. Murray has 
been careful in the right division of the syllables in 
his spelling ; and that he has not followed the example 
of others, by introducing into his book a mass of irre- 
letrant matter*" 

Inperial Review, October, 1804 






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